LOST OR FORGOTTEN IN AFGHANISTAN : Collateral Damage
by Kuiakaituhi
Summary: Women are often mislaid or discarded in Afghanistan. One such woman made a brief appearance in OUR GIRL, but then disappeared. I have given her a name as she was nameless and faceless and have invited Molly to join the search for her story. Qaseem is there, too. Charles is doing his thing in Africa and is proud of Molly. Can they have a mid-tour catch-up? I certainly plan one.
1. Chapter 1

**A FORGOTTEN AFGHANI**

 _ **I come from the country where women decided for themselves, the first in the world to do so, that voting was a right for them. We have an increasing population of refugee Afghan families, mostly those of translators who worked for the NZ Army until drawdown and who were targets for execution after we left. I don't "get" Burqas and, as an educator, I hate that girls in some places are denied an education. I hate that women anywhere are subjected to violence merely because they are women. Nadia Hashimi's wonderful novels have taught me much about the lives of Afghani women, both in modern times and in the relatively recent past.**_

 _ **I worried a lot what happened to Bashira's mother. How was she treated after Molly foiled efforts to turn Bashira into a sacrifice? This first chapter explores the background to Molly's involvement again in Bashira's life and, this time, that of her mother, who I have called Samira for want of a name not given in the series.**_

This new dream was vivid and violent and it had come the first night after Charles left for Africa. Molly had woken drenched in sweat, yelling at Smurf not to shoot that fucking goat, then at Charles to run, run hard, that Badrai was coming, if he would only run hard enough he wouldn't get shot. And for the last week the dream had replayed until she woke in terror as the bullet from the Taliban gun passed her in extreme slow motion so that she reached out to stop it with her hand. Unable to catch it in time, she watched its certain lethal trajectory towards the captain. She never did see where the bullet landed. All she knew as she struggled to wake was that she was desperately and irrevocably alone on that dusty Afghan road screaming for the man she loved and could find nowhere.

And for the week since he had left, the dream returned, each time more detailed and terrifying, always waking her at the same point. Of course she was worried about him being in danger again, but she hadn't been prepared for the intensity of her loss as he left with his boys – actually, her boys. Bereft and aimless, she had wandered around the flat asking herself why, for fuck's sake, she'd agreed with Beck that she could do with some extended leave.

"Dawes," he had said at the post tour meeting after her last posting helping to train new medics at Pirbright. " You're the closest thing to a burnt out soldier I've seen for a long time. I'm ordering you to take some time out, at least three months, to rest and to consider your future in the Army. This relationship between you and Major James is awkward, to say the least. We all need to consider the best way forward to manage the possible fallout.

Go away, have a holiday, do some volunteer work, try out some other jobs, clear your head, give us all time to think while the major is busy in Kenya."

She had protested, insisted that she was fine, would be OK to continue working, but Beck was adamant. She was to consider herself stood down on compassionate leave, with pay, for three months, longer if she needed it. On some level, she understood that the army needed her to take the leave so that there could be time to best handle what was a very tricky situation between two serving soldiers.

Charles had agreed with Beck. Molly had worked solidly all through the time he was rehabbing after his injuries and he was worried too. Dark shadows had settled into place under her eyes and many times he had shaken her awake and held her tight in his arms as the night demons plagued her dreams. She would call out in her sleep, in the voice of a small, hurt child for her mum or sometimes for her nan. Her heart would be thumping wildly in her chest. Gasping for air and shaking violently she would slowly gather herself together, entangling herself from the closeness of his body. Standing, she would stretch and shake herself and as his time to leave for Kenya came closer she would push him away if he tried to hold her once she was out of bed. Was she getting ready to be without him, he wondered and worried? If she needed to push him away to do that, then that was fine by him, even if it hurt a bit, actually quite a lot if he were honest

Several times he had suggested to her tha she might do well to get some counselling. Eventually he had done so himself to deal with the emotional after effects of his injuries. Cynical at first about talking to shrinks, Charles had found that his weekly appointments with the therapist had become something he looked forward to as he slowly picked through the memories and raw emotions brought about by that terrible day on the dusty road in Helmand province.

"I don't need no fucking shrink!" she'd yelled at him. "Me, I'm OK, just some bad dreams, that's all. They'll go away and I'm gonna be OK. Just you worry about yourself an' going to Africa an' taking care an' not getting' shot up again."

And there it was, her fear that she might lose him even after the long painful healing process he had been through and her constant vigilance until she was really sure that he was going to be OK. They had agonised together about his original plan to resign his commission and Molly had talked him into going to see Beck first.

It was worth a try to see if there was any way they could both stay "in" and it really depended on how much Beck and other ranking officers already knew about their relationship. As it turned out, there had not been any gossip and no-one had put two and two together when both had asked permission to live off base. Just to play safe, Molly had given her East London home address and with mobile phones there was no tracing her whereabouts from a home line.

Both sets of parents knew but kept their own counsel, though Dave was vocal and scathing about her "wanting to shack up with a posh boy officer instead of a good solid East London fella." Her dad thought she was getting above herself, maybe acting as if she was better than the rest of her family. Nan had rubbished him mainly by stating that her Molls had obviously found "…a good 'un" and that she wished she were about forty years younger "…cos she might have given Molly a run for her money." Very direct about Molly having a much better chance of holding onto any housekeeping money than Belinda was, she commented on Charles' good taste in booze rather than the cheap and nasty Polish beer that disappeared down Dave's throat in ever increasing quantities.

"Old trout!" Dave had exploded in a righteous rage and had stormed out of the flat, heading to the local whilst yelling insults about the doings of his family coven.

OG

As Charles got closer to his African tour, he did worry about Molly. She was so fiercely independent, but also so very vulnerable. Only one of her friends, Jackie from the Helmand tour, knew they were together and he had contacted her. Feeling guilty about talking behind Molly's back Charles had spoken of Molly's night terrors and of his worries for her. Jackie had given him a quick hug and had told him she had already decided to "…watch out for Molls" in his absence.

Then he emailed Qaseem in Kabul, getting his address directly from the university's website. Whether he would reach the Afghani was a matter of luck, he thought. Just as Molly had predicted at the start of their time in the Helmand FOB, things had certainly gone "Whoosh!" after the British Army went home. The Taliban was resurgent and there were reports every day now of violence as small settlements were overrun. Explosions and executions were once more the order of the day in parts of Afghanistan and fear had returned to Kabul. Insurgents had reappeared on the streets and the university would, as in the past, become a prime target if things deteriorated. Who knew whether that mightn't have happened already?"

Charles felt an immense sadness as he reflected on the people and events of that memorable fourth tour to Afghan The small and strong woman with whom he was so very much in love was the reason why he could own to such feelings, he recognised gratefully. Mentally cringing, he heard himself on the same day as she had made the predictions about Afghan after the army left. His haughtiness as he lectured her about taking orders from those higher up and acting on them without personal reflection had certainly come back to bite him on the rear end.

Only after her selflessness in putting her very life on the line for her comrades as well as for an eleven year old Afghani girl and his growing awareness that he loved her was he able to tell her how much he had changed because of her. And still he had cocked it up, hurting her more than he cared to recall. That they were together now and still loving one another was a precious thing worth protecting and that was why he was now communicating with Qaseem.

''I'm due to go on tour in a week," he'd explained." I know Molly keeps in touch with you. She has a lot of respect for you, Qaseem. She's even told me she would have liked you for a father. I'm worried that it will be really hard for her over the next six months while I'm away." He told Qaseem about the nightmares and about her stubborn resistance to getting help. Being so far away from her was going to be very hard for them both, he predicted. He, they needed help.

There was a reply some hours later. Qaseem would do his best to increase his emails and conversations with Molly, but he was certain that Charles must know that conditions had deteriorated in Kabul. He was not always able to be sure of a reliable internet connection or secure phone line. But,

"You must know, Charles that I have grown to love Molly Dawes as if she is my daughter. I will do all I can to keep in touch with her. But you know she has a strong will and heart that has so much love in it that it overflows sometimes and carries her to some very surprising places. I think you just keep loving her back and have faith in her.

I have some possible plans for a new thing to happen in my life. I am not sure yet, but I will let you know as soon as I can. And I will tell Molly also.

For now, go well in fighting those monstrous brothers of the Taliban in Africa, Charles. I will be in touch with you soon."

James had tears in his eyes as he closed the connection. Not until Molly came into his life had he really considered what good things may come to a person who knew that hard times could bring unexpected gifts. In this case a treasured and reliable man of principle. A good friend.

OG

Once more Molly was screaming at Smurf to leave the fucking goat alone. Charles, followed by Nude nut and Fingers advanced along the dry dusty, Helmand road to the barrier where the truck was waiting for inspection . Deep in the dream that came every night since Charles had flown out to Kenya, she sweated and twisted in her bedclothes as she waited to reach out for the bullet she knew she would never catch. An unfamiliar sound injected itself into the pregnant silence of the Afghan landscape of her dream.

Shrill and repetitive, it insisted she leave the dreamscape behind. Still sweating, her heart thumping as if it might leap out of her chest, she surfaced to the sound of her I-phone playing over and over the sounds of a train whistle which Sam had dared her to load.

"Hello, Molly Dawes." The gentle tone of Qaseem's voice still had that distinctive lilt of his native Pashto. "Did I wake you? I am sorry if I did but it is very difficult to get a clear line out of Kabul at present."

Molly was instantly awake and alert, her military training kicking in.

"I were in the middle of a bad dream, Qaseem. You saved me!" Her delight at hearing the familiar warm voice changed as she recognised the unmistakable undertone signalling that all was not well with him

"Molly, listen hard. I'm taking a risk that no one is listening in to this conversation. Charles contacted me before he went to Africa and said that you were on leave for a while. He was worried aabout you Molly, but I told him to have faith that you would be fine.

Things are not good here and I have decided on a new mission as a translator. Not for the army, but for the Red Cross and I am going to Greece, to an island called Lesvos. There are refugee camps there with Afghanis and people from other places who are getting away from these evil people. I am going to volunteer to help my people there.

Molly, the conditions are very bad on Lesvos, I am told. People have been injured on smuggler boats and lots are sick and hungry. I thought about you and your medic training and I have a very big thing to ask you. I am heading up a team for Red Cross and I am inviting you to help make it our team again. Of course I will understand if you decide no is your answer. "

As she listened intently, Molly noticed that she was excited, just a little, by the prospect of another mission, another adventure.

"I'll think about it, Qaseem. Sounds interesting. How would I get there if I wanted to do it?"

"Go to the Red cross headquarters in London, Molly. I will tell my people here that they might hear from you. And then you talk to them and decide for yourself. You could do a lot of good, Molly…"

"And it would give something to do while Charles is away. Something I could be good at. Might make me tired enough not to have these nightmares, eh, Qaseem."

"AH!" he thought. "She is owning up to feeling bad. Perhaps I can help her by being close to her as we work together."

"One more thing, Molly. I will be travelling with three others. One is my older sister who is a widow and a brilliant cook She is hoping to find food somewhere and feed our people some fine Afghan kebab. She is accompanying two people you know.

Take a deep breath, Molly. One is Bashira. The new Talibani had threatened to overrun the safe place where she and the other children were. We managed to find new places for them all just in time. Bashira came to my sister and the other person we have is her mother, Samira. She has been treated dreadfully, Molly, and I am ashamed as a man that I did not anticipate what has happened to her since Bashira was rescued from the explosive vest. My sister has helped a lot, but we need to help Samira away from Afghanistan. She is very wounded, Molly. And I am not sure yet how easy it is going to be getting three women out of Afghanistan and safely to new


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 GREECE

 _ **Of course Molly will go to Greece. The main issue is likely to be what Charles thinks. I think she will probably rationalise her need to tell him about her new adventure, or not. After all, the mail to Kenya can be a problem, can't it?**_

Months later, when Molly found precious time to reflect on all that had come to pass after Qaseem's plea for help on Lesvos, she realised a chain of events was set in motion immediately she said "Yes." Truth be told, the chain started earlier with Beck's insistence that she go on paid leave, clearing the way for her to make her decision.

It helped that Charles had already left for Kenya. She suspected that he would not have wanted her to go to Greece, mostly because of the uncertain nature of the mission, but also because he would worry about her being safe. Before he left he had carefully explained that it would be difficult to send accurate and personal messages back home because of security risks and that letters would be reopened and scrutinised before either leaving or entering Kenya. This was true even of services mail and recognised the increasingly sophisticated ability of the insurgent organisations to intercept communications and to make use of advanced technology.

On a visit to a war museum while she was in basic training, Molly had seen an example of a World War 2 services postcard with stock phrases which could be ticked or crossed out, whatever best described the soldier's situation at the time. There was no space for anything personal. Molly imagined that there wouldn't be much difference in what was allowed in this year, 2016.

So, there was no way she could talk directly with Charles about what she had almost immediately decided to do. At least she told herself it was for security reasons, but she knew he wouldn't be happy and would try to talk her out of it. He wouldn't be surprised, of course, at her decision, when he finally did find out. When she had paraphrased Beck's suggestions about slowing down, having a rest and generally lying about for three months or so, he had raised one eyebrow in derision, commenting,

"Fuck, I can't see that happening, can you? You'll be bored in five minutes. Probably hit the vodka and pick fights with your old man for something to do. Just what ARE you going to do, Molls?"

"Dunno," she'd replied. "Read the Collected Works of Shakespeare" from cover to cover, maybe? Seriously, I'll probably give me mum a hand with the kids, spend some time with me nan. She's not been that good, lately. Sleep in, get pissed with Jacky, probably on vodka, THEN tequila, sleep in some more. Get bored shitless…"

"That's what's worrying me," he'd muttered. "How about something new? Learn to swim? I could pay for some driving lessons if you like. I might even be able to talk Mum into letting you practice in her little car. NOT my new car, insurance would cost a bloody fortune." This last suggestion did not go down well if Molly's scowl was anything to go by. Beating a hasty backward retreat from the room, he held his hands high over his face, roaring with laughter as Molly kicked at his shins in an infuriated outburst. She really was much better at giving aggro than taking it, he thought.

OG

Qaseem did not seem at all surprised that her unscheduled leave coincided with the timing of the new mission to Lesvos.

"It is _**naseeb.**_ In English, the nearest thing is fate or destiny, perhaps. It is the way in Afghanistan that we explain why things happen to us. I can talk to you more about naseeb when I see you, Molly."

"I need to think about it, Qaseem," she'd replied. " Let's just keep it between us for a little while." But she knew she wouldn't be passing up a chance for such an adventure. Not whilst Charles was over in Africa being a big shot major and she was already bored to tears just thinking about watching endless box sets on the telly, or babysitting for her mum or getting pissed on Friday nights with Jacky and then probably following it up with a Saturday night session at the pub as well.

First, she needed to find out a bit about this exotic sounding Lesvos. Next step, what would she have to do to get there? Her new I-Pad, bought for her as a farewell present by Charles, helped her find some of the answers. What she discovered shocked her. The people of this small Greek island had opened their hearts to the early refugees who arrived at their port of Mytilene, often taking women and children into their homes, feeding them, comforting them, providing shelter and some hope of a future in Europe.

Nobody had foreseen the floods of humanity throughout 2015, estimated by December of that year to be more than 450,000 attempting to reach this one island. Greece had many similar islands: God knew the true extent of the diaspora. People smugglers crammed refugees from Afghan, from Syria and Iraq onto any craft that looked as if it might float for even a short time and many of the so called boats sank, taking the desperate human cargo down with them. Bodies of the drowned rose to the surface and eventually washed up on beaches and outcroppings all along the coast line. Molly was deeply troubled by what she found online.

She wondered what the point had been to her deployment and that of all her comrades. What about those soldiers like Charles with their two, three, even four deployments? How did they feel seeing this appalling testament to the ruthlessness of the Taliban, now on the rise again, and the even more terrifying, if that were possible, ISIS. Now, with some distance from early days in the Helmand experience, Molly reflected on Charles' claim that he did not question orders, but did as he was told and left the worrying to his superior officers. She understood this attitude a little better, she realised, but would ALWAYS ask,  
"Really?" She was so glad now that Charles had eventually shifted his perspective, learning to personalise his war, treating people as individuals worthy of his attention and help. And it still moved her that he had credited her with making the difference for him, helping him to reach that understanding. He had told her so, hadn't he?

OG

One of the most recent online reports from Lesbos acknowledged that there had been a seismic response to requests for volunteer help. There was little cooperation from some of the smaller organisations who had turned up on the island. At last count, over eighty Non- Government Organisations were said to have personnel on the island. It appeared to be a shambles in some places and the outcome was dire for many of the refugees, most of all for women and children. Food was very short, medical supplies almost impossible to access, sanitation and shelter failing more and more each day to keep up with their needs. Chaotic would probably be an accurate description of much of the relief effort on Lesvos.

Her heart ached, ached profoundly at the blank eyes of so many of the little ones in the photographs she saw. Molly could not help but compare them with her well fed, rowdy, naughty but mostly joyful brothers and sisters.

Solo mothers without men to accompany and protect them, as was the custom in Afghanistan, recounted tales of perilous journeys across vast expanses of unknown territory, not knowing their destination or future. Many were penniless and without documentation. Some spoke of violent attacks, theft of all their personal property, sexual assaults and desperate attempts to keep their children safe from predators and people traffickers. There were strong, outspoken women amongst them. Mostly though, in the veiled and exhausted faces of most of the refugee women, Molly sensed a profound sadness and, in some, despair.

Qaseem had told her that Bashira was one of the Lesvos refugees, together with her mother. Before this, it was as if Samira had fallen after the face of the earth after she had brought her daughter to the military medical station for help. Molly had stood up for the Afghani woman's rights, angering Charles as she did so. She had no regrets about doing so. What she did regret was how she never gave Samira a second thought after that. How terrifying it would have been for Samira to know her husband was so willing to turn his daughter into a sacrifice. How this brave mother must have suffered when Bashira was spirited away to an unknown place for her own safety. What HAD happened to Samira?

Of course Molly would go to Greece. She was grateful that Qaseem had chosen to ally himself with the Red Cross and not one of the smaller organisations on Lesvos. It would be easy to get her medic status and her experience in Afghanistan recognised as useful, she thought. Next stop, Red Cross HQ, London.

 _Please read and review. I am not sure how many of you are interested in this brave Afghani woman without a name or a story. Like so many of her countrywoman, she probably stayed out of sight to be safe. Widows, I discovered, are often non-people_ in _her country. Your comments are appreciated as I try to build a possible life and story for Samira and Bashira, who she has found again. I wonder what Charles will make of it all?_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

MEDIC TO MORIA

 _ **It's not as easy as it looks, pulling up sticks and heading off for what could be a very difficult place. There's some spadework to be done and people to be informed. As usual, all credit to Tony Grounds and the BBC for these fascinating characters and all the potential for developing possible lives for them.**_

A couple of nights before she went to the London HQ of the Red Cross there was a new dream. Now, no slow motion bullet to elude capture by her desperately out-stretched fingertips. Instead, floating in the breeze and just as unreachable as that bullet, was a fine silky scarf, multihued and gossamer thin so that she could see through it and for miles and miles ahead. Molly ran hard to catch up with the person who was holding the scarf, lightly wrapped around her hand and high above her head as if it were a pennant. Whenever Molly got close the scarf would elongate as if by magic and its bearer would suddenly be as far away as at the start of the chase. Though she couldn't see the person's face, she knew who it was. No matter how hard and long she screamed to get the person to stop, no sound came from Molly's throat. All that came were tears, many, many tears coursing silently down her face. Acid and hot, they carved deep grooves into the skin of her Dreamface as she finally noticed the thousands of people towards whom they both ran. She rose up out of her sleep as the pennant bearer caught up with the throng and was immediately absorbed into its mass.

This dream did not leave her bereft, however, like the bullet dream had. There seemed to be a purpose to the shift in the night time communication from her subconscious. At one level Molly understood that she did not need to spend energy worrying about Charles and what might happen to him. Aware that both he and her worries about him were out of her hands for now, she knew that her energy and attention needed to be directed for the time being towards the girl with the Dreamscarf. Through paying attention to the needs of the One, she would be able to affect the Many. This was confirmation, again, of the value of what Charles had learned from her, what he had _**said**_ he had learned from her.

On another level Molly wondered whether, again, this was _**naseeb**_ , as hinted at by Qaseem. One of her tasks and she suspected, wonderful learning opportunity, would be to find out more about this Afghan concept of fate, karma, preparation for the future. Whatever her learned friend would share with her would be just as wonderful as their past conversations about all manner of important ideas. She was so looking forward to spending time again working alongside the gentle and strong Afghani whom she had grown to respect and love as a surrogate father figure.

OG

She often recalled the conversation in the bunker during which he had spoken so quietly it was almost a whisper, of the explosion that had killed his wife and daughter. She did not yet know of the steely determination and refusal to accept "No" for an answer which would attend every action he took to protect and empower, at the same time, the women for whom he now cared. Qaseem called his considerable intellect into play to create different solutions to common problems and was not averse to leaning on his overseas academic and military colleagues for help when he could. She would find out that the teacher side of Qaseem was offset by a brilliant wheeler-dealer and that he was well aware of a devious streak in his own personality. A middle child in a family with three brothers and two older and bossy sisters, he was skilled at strategizing to get the outcome he wanted. To his credit, this was rarely for himself.

All of his siblings were educated, encouraged to look outward and to do good for others where that was possible. His father and mother had been insistent that their girls were well educated. One was, like him, a teacher, the other an engineer. When the Taliban came to power, they and their mother were forced into the blue burkha which they called, in private, "the blue shroud" and which was peculiar to Afghanistan. The irony was not lost on any of Qaseem's family and indeed many Afghani women that the blue colour came from that of the country's national gemstone. Lapis lazuli had been excavated from the earth for time immemorial. Ancient mines in Badakhshan Province were said to be the site where the purest of the brilliant blue stone was found. Legend had it that this was where the lapis in Tutankhamun's tomb originated.

Qaseem had lost two of his brothers fighting the Taliban. His mother and sisters had melted into the blue background, his father had died quietly, in his sleep, the day after the body of his youngest son was found discarded by the roadside near Kabul. The two were buried side by side and Qaseem had disappeared from his office at the University before the Taliban came looking for him. He had thought he would be safe enough hiding out in his apartment: the Taliban were of a different mind. The explosion which had killed his wife and daughter took ten other lives as well.

Molly was soon going to find out that Bashira and Samira had quite different refugee stories from most other Afghani women waiting in Greece for new lives. That was because of who Qaseem had become and what he was capable of doing.

OG

The day before she planned on going up to London Molly had phoned to make an appointment with the refugee division of the British Red Cross. Over the phone there were a number of questions asked which were obviously designed to weed out dreamers and do-gooders. The woman she spoke to was clearly of a no-nonsense mind set: she almost barked down the phone at Molly that she sounded like a bit of a kid.

"Do you have any idea what is going on out there?" she asked wearily, as if she had had this conversation plenty of times before. "Forgive me, but you sound as if you're about thirteen. What would you be able to do in Moria resettlement camp? It's not about babysitting little children who are perfectly clean and healthy and well behaved. Or handing out packed lunches to an orderly line of grateful Muslim men. Nor is it sitting about on beaches looking out at the bright blue sea… It's hunger and despair and disease and thousands of people holding onto whatever shred of human dignity and hope they can muster. What would you be able to offer, Miss Dawes? Think hard before you waste either your time or ours coming up here."

"Miss, or Mrs…sorry, I didn't catch your name. I can hear that you have a shit…whoops, sorry for the language…job talkin' to all sorts of do-gooders. The fact is, I've decided to go to Lesvos anyhow, to team up with an Afghan mate of mine. He were an interpreter with my Herrick unit when I served in Afghan. I'm a medic in the army, on long term leave and 'e's asked me to join him and some other people what can work together 'n some can speak Pashto or Dari an…" The voice on the end of the Red Cross phone cut across her, the tone instantly more friendly.

"Please, Miss Dawes, I **am** sorry I was so negative. You have no idea what some people think. All these romantic, totally unrealistic ideas about rescuing people and being heroes. Sounds like you've got just the kind of experience we need. Though I must say you **do** sound very young."

"Yeh, I am, But I'm tough as boots, me. Been and done lots of stuff already. I'll be there tomorrow, late morning. Who do I ask for?"

"We're very busy. Can't guarantee who you'd get. I'll leave some notes at the front desk for whoever is on duty. Just tell them you're the Army medic who's served in Afghanistan and who sounds about thirteen. Bye, Miss Dawes."

OG

The meeting at Red Cross HQ was business like and didn't take a lot of time. She had the very clear message that there was not a lot of time to be wasted, there was so much need. She couldn't have picked a better time to offer her services, it seemed. Overcrowding, poor hygiene, very bad weather and exhaustion from traumatic journeys to reach Lesvos meant that there were worrying outbreaks of communicable disease such as dysentery and chicken pox. Medics were desperately needed, particularly female medics to treat the increasing number of women and children without husbands and fathers to take up the traditional protective role of Afghan men.

Immunisation was imperative for those refugees as yet unaffected by contagious diseases and Molly found out that there were still some funds available from a special grant from the Scottish Red Cross to pay for vaccines. How far this would go was not clear, but it was something to start with The very helpful official with whom Molly dealt promised to source as much as he could and to have it available along with as many general medical supplies as Molly could take charge of on a mercy flight to Lesvos. He would arrange her transport and ensure that she and her resources would be uplifted by a colleague from the Hellenic Red Cross on the island. Hopefully, she would be in contact with Qaseem before the scheduled departure in five days' time so he would know when she was due to arrive at Moria.

That night she spent at Upton Park with her Mum and Dad and the kids. She was not sure her folks understood what she was about to do, but she at least wanted them to know where she was and how to contact her if necessary. As she lay in the bottom bunk fairy lights comfortably flickering around her, she realised that this was the first time she had consciously thought about Charles for a couple of days. She had let him go and had stopped worrying through getting on with her own new adventure. She'd need to tell him, though. Her instinct was to wait till she was in Greece. He couldn't really say much, she would be doing pretty much the same sort of work, only she wouldn't have to put up with someone bossing her around, would she?

In the new dream that night she got very close to the Scarfgirl and much nearer to the thousands of people in the crowd. Bashira turned her head and gifted Molly with a dazzling smile. She even slowed down and waited for a short time before she raced onwards. Molly did not remember any more of the dream in the morning.

OG

The buzzing of her I-phone woke her rather earlier than she wanted. A sleep in was going to be her last luxury for a while. Grumpily, she snapped,

"Who's this, so bloody early in the morning? Can't it wait till at least the sun's come up?"

"Nah!" drawled a familiar voice. "I've just arrived back, Molls, calling from Brize. Had an injury, need some specialist operation or other. Going straight to the hospital now. I've got a letter, a big fat one, from the Bossman, Molls. He wrote it the night before last, stayed up till all hours so he could get it finished for me to bring. Have to leave now, text me tomorrow, eh?"

 _ **My whole working life has been about people's stories, particularly those who seem to be minor players. I think that when these tales are given substance and respect, their impact on the 'big picture' can be very powerful. The research I'm doing for this story is fascinating. I had no idea about Afghan lapis lazuli before this. The bit about the Scottish Red Cross is true, as is the desperate need right now for medics to vaccinate refugee children.**_

 _ **Please read and review. It really does help to know what you think.**_

OG


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

A LETTER FROM KENYA

 _ **How often in life does someone's misfortune lead to an opportunity for another person? Charles has seized the day to connect with Molly and to give her some very precise instructions about arrangements for his upcoming leave. She usually doesn't enjoy his bossiness but this time I think she'll probably be very obedient, if she wants what's good for her.**_

July 7th 2016

Hello, my love, from near Nairobi, at the end of another day without you.

This is the time of each day that I have deliberately set aside to find a quiet, alone place to think only about you and about me and about us together. Otherwise I find myself distracted again and again from what I need to be concentrating on as the essence of you is in my head and my heart and in my body. I miss you with every breath I take, my Molly, and struggle to be that hard headed career officer of old unless I take steps to manage my longing for you.

Sunset comes in reds and yellows here with the branches of acacia trees reaching up like the bony fingers of skeletons to grasp the last fading rays of the day's light. Usually the sun sinks very rapidly at the end and it is suddenly dark as if some backstage god has turned off the world's master switch. That moment is almost here this evening. When it comes, I'll turn on my torch and head off to my quarters to finish the day's paperwork.

Right now I see three giraffes in silhouette straining to reach the leaves at the very tip of the tallest tree. These amazing creatures amble across the land at twilight. The plains in front of me are known as veldt, because they are almost entirely grass and low scrubby bushes. Trees are rare, especially these acacia, the leaves of which are pretty much staple food for giraffes. They move about in groups seeking out food and are startlingly graceful for such fantastical creatures. Just the other day I was very near to a group of them as we drove out away from Base Camp. Up close they have stunningly beautiful faces with dark, intelligent eyes. To me, they seem so wise and ancient and I get this sense that they are laughing at us humans with all our petty worries and wars whilst they get on with the important daily task of finding enough food to survive.

I had an instant memory of you standing very close to the mirror in our bedroom as you layered black mascara on your eyelashes, with your beautiful eyes flashing green fire at me. Once again, you gave me cheek, as I was getting dressed to take you to that formal mess dinner. Do you know, those giraffes have black eyelashes to die for, long and curly, and I am sure most women would love to have them! Back to getting dressed. Molly, I recall that the last thing I wanted to be doing was putting those dress pants on. They really needed to come off and you needed to be naked and we needed to be tangled together on our bed and there you were, teasing me from under those giraffe lashes you were creating. So really, my Molly, I have this troubling connection in my mind between giraffes and eyelashes and me making love to you until we curl up close together, exhausted. You would have your head tucked under my chin and I would be stroking your beautiful hair as we both get our breath back. We would drift slowly off to sleep then, the mess dinner a non-event, totally worth truanting even if I got in trouble from Beck the next day.

Right now, I am having some difficulty reining in my imagination and I hope like hell no one comes looking for me in the next five minutes or so as it could be quite embarrassing if anyone were to glance at my nether regions. I think it might be wise for me to do that timeworn thing and "Think of Mother England', though I won't be on my back looking up at the ceiling…I'll try to concentrate on Mother England's Army and my small part in it, instead. Even this far away, you're able to do things I never dreamed of to my body, my love, and that is only from thinking about you. God, I want you so much I think I might burn up from the craving I have to touch you.

OG

I came back to my quarters a little while ago. The chopper will be picking Fingers up at first light to connect with the plane leaving from Nairobi tomorrow at 10.00 am so I need to get this finished for him to take to you. Poor Fingers has made a real mess of his mouth and the doctor here decided he needs reconstructive dental work to put some crowns in the place of the three broken top teeth he got from his fall. Total freak accident, poor bugger. He was on patrol and tripped over the axle of an old wrecked vehicle hidden in some undergrowth. Two black eyes, three broken teeth and he's been under close observation to make sure he's not concussed. He'll get the very best medical care and some top rate crowns back in England. The thinking is that he can probably come back here fairly quickly after his treatment and be on light desk duties for a while. So you can probably give him a letter for me, Molls. Go and visit him, if you can. The boys all miss you and will feel really good if they know you are looking after their mate.

We are leaving Nairobi in two weeks' time, Molly, and heading for a peacekeeping stint alongside a Kenyan Army platoon at Dadaab. It's a huge refugee settlement, the biggest in the world, near the Somali border. And the Kenyan government is planning to close it down later this year. I can't say any more than that for fear this letter (most unlikely, but I can't take the risk) gets into the wrong hands. I suppose it will be a bit like in Afghan when we left Bastion to go the FOB. The Kenyans and us have been training together ever since we got here and they're a pretty amazing bunch of soldiers. Very skilled, very well disciplined and I'm told they're fierce in battle.

From what I have heard already about Al Shabaab, the sort of African equivalent of the Taliban and Isis, that may be a very good thing if there are any more terrorist attacks. Dadaab is seen as a breeding ground for Al Shabaab, I believe. So, different country, similar issues for us Afghan vets, my love.

One of the points of difference between the two tours is that the majority of the personnel are dark skinned and people who look like me are in the minority. I didn't know much till I got here about the tribes. There are more than seventy and there are all sorts of stresses and issues between them which have been going on forever. Military personnel mostly come from the Kamba tribe and the powerful people in Government are Kikuyu, the biggest tribe in Kenya. So, all sorts of things to learn and to remember when I'm communicating with the locals. Have put my foot in it a couple of times recently. When the British did that during the Mau Mau era in Kenya they were lucky to stay alive, so I'm very grateful I'm living now, not then. I've made a couple of friends amongst the Kenyan officers and have asked them, very politely, to let me know if I'm not doing things right.

OG

I won't be able to tell you much once I leave the BATUK area, Molly, but one thing I do know. I am scheduled to have two weeks' leave, back in England, in twelve weeks from now. If you are feeling and thinking like I am right now please, please make sure that you're not doing anything else for those fourteen days.

I know how much you hate me telling you what to do and how you go out of your way to subvert me when I boss you around, but right now I AM your Bossman, Dawes, and these are my orders for Week Twelve of my tour in Kenya. If you were here with me I would be giving them to you with my best Captain Sternface expression and voice. I would be barking my orders at you, Dawes. I would make you stand to attention and I would look you straight in the eye, Dawes, as I gave you these commands. You would be quaking in your shoes as I gave you these orders and I am absolutely certain that other parts of you would soon be quivering, too, Dawes. I know I am getting pretty excited right now imagining you biting your bottom lip as you read these orders, Dawes, in a couple of days from now. What else will be happening to your body then, Dawes? From past experience of your wonderful, glorious, I can only imagine…

You can carry out the orders out however and whenever you choose, except for the last few. You will work that out easily, I'm sure. Here goes, Dawes.

Tell everyone we know, including my family and yours, even Sam, that we are on holiday and will see them during the second week. Let them know that they will only be able to make contact with either of us in dire emergencies by phoning us five times, one after the other. We will pick up, reluctantly, after the fifth ring and will be furious if it's not a matter of national importance.

Tell our parents to lie to everyone, including the army, if anyone is looking for us during that first week. Threaten said parents with dire consequences if they refuse to lie for us. They are all adults and should be able to work out for themselves what we are up to. They won't have heard from either of us and they will have not a clue about where we are, should anyone ask for us.

Go shopping. Take money from our joint account. There will be plenty there because I won't have spent money for weeks. Buy extravagant food, easy stuff that won't need us to spend much time cooking. Appropriate food to support our upcoming strenuous week. Oysters, fillet steak, avocados, chocolate, ice cream, you know the kind of thing I mean. Remember that Cosmopolitan article you showed me…

Go to the Nespresso shop in London Get plenty of Rosabaya pods. I might gonna need to stay awake from time to time, if I wear myself out. You'd better get some of your tea, for the same reason.

Go to that off licence near home, the one with the great selection of Marlborough whites. And get some French reds as well. Get plenty, put the whites in the fridge the day before I get back. Get vodka and single malt whisky, not that I intend that we will drink either of these till later in the week when we might be bit tired and needing to sleep, for a little while just to get our energy levels up.

Go to Harrods and buy me some of that lemony body wash and after shave that you told me turns you on bigtime. I used the last of it the night before I left. If I remember, it worked a treat. Break the seal, leave it in the shower. I'm going to be in a hurry. Also, make sure we have some of that really classy mouthwash. You know, the one you said tasted magic on my tongue, like aniseed drops.

I hope you have plenty of that musky new perfume I got for your birthday. If not, buy some more. Buy the essence. Buy a big bottle. It came from Harrods, too.

My plane is due in at 14.00 hours that day. I have booked a rental car online to be delivered to me at Brize Norton at 14.30, latest. I'll drive pretty fast, I think and should be home at 16.00 hours.

Shower at 15.30. Put plenty of the musky stuff on. You know where I like it to be most of all.

Go to the linen cupboard, at the back of the third shelf down. Open the Victoria's Secret parcel and put on the white knickers and bra.

At 15.50, unlock the front door. I'm not sure where my keys will be and I don't want to have to fumble for ages with the lock. Clear the floor in the hallway for me to drop my Bergen and kitbag in a hurry.

At 15.55 turn the shower on so it's ready for me. You know how long it can take for the water to heat up.

Get into bed. Lie on your stomach. Turn your head towards the wall so I can't see you till I've had a shower. Don't talk to me, yet. Don't expect me to make love to you, not the first time.

So those are my orders, Dawes. I expect them to be carried out, to the letter.

Now that you know what to do THEN, Molly, I suppose I need to bring myself back NOW to the real world. Knowing your low tolerance for boredom and inactivity, I'm guessing that you will have found some creative ways to spend this leave of absence time. I'm almost scared to ask you what you're up to. Let me know when you're ready. I promise that I won't be surprised or even shocked and I won't give you any orders. Anyway, I've already given you the ones that matter to me. Just one suggestion, though. I know it's hard to get hold of me if you want to talk. You would probably find Qaseem easier to contact over the next few weeks. I know how much you respect him and value his opinion.

I've just noticed that it is 03.00 hours here and I will need to get a couple of hours sleep before I take 2 Company on an early morning run at 05.30. Do you remember those early morning conversations we had? I was mostly awake at that time because I was driven to distraction by totally inappropriate thoughts about what I would prefer to be doing with and to you at 05.30 and it wasn't about deep and meaningful conversations, I'm afraid, my Molly. You still drive me to distraction. I want you desperately and I wish you were curled up in my arms, right now.

I love you, forever.

Charles.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

OBEYING ORDERS, OF COURSE!

 _ **These letters are about people feeling the pain of separation from those they love through really tough times. Though I live so far away from Afghanistan, Greece and Kenya, the intensity of that pain was brought home to our family on Bastille Day. "Our (own) Girl", that is one of the bright, intelligent, sassy and beautiful young women we treasure is on her OE and ended up right in the middle of the truck massacre in Nice. She is OK now but we are all aware that is only because of some lucky timing. Many families have not been so lucky through all of these terror filled wars and attacks on random groups of people. I've given a great deal of thought to those who are grieving for loved ones they have lost, particularly over the past few days.**_

July 11th, 2016

Dear Bossman,

Really hard for me to think about you as plain old Charles ever since I got your well bossy letter. Can't stop getting all lonely and sad every time I think about you. Mind you, that's not new, not really. Don't like sleeping in our great big bed, all by myself. I keep on turning over and reaching out to cuddle up to you and it's just empty and cold on your side. I left your pillowcase on 'cos it smelled like you, all lemony and warm. The smell's pretty much gone, now. I must of sniffed it all up inside me. So I didn't wait to buy a new bottle like you ordered. I got a new one at Harrods and I've opened it already, Boss. Rate I'm going, I'll probably need to get some more before you get home.

When you went away to Africa I was hoping you was missing me, too. I'm glad you are. Sometimes I feel like I have this great big hollow space in my throat, It's like I can't breathe properly, cos you are half my breath, Charles, and at least half my heart belongs to you too. I'm beginning to sound like one of them lunch time soaps, so I better get on with what's been happening.

Fingers had his operation the day after he got back. I left it one more day before I went to see him, what with the drugs he were on for the surgery probably making him all whoozy and talking crap. It were really shite going back to that hospital, Charles. Felt like I got flipped right back to when I got out of me Nan's car and went running through the corridors looking for you and I didn't know where you were and my heart was thumping so hard, I were so scared you weren't OK. And then Smurf told me you were back in theatre and first he tried to guilt trip me but then he finally got it through his thick Welsh wanker's skull that he better give up on me. He said it himself in the end, he said, "You'd still love the Boss", and he were right. And I still do. More and more every day, Boss.

OG

Poor Fingers, he looks like he were hit by a London bus. Two shiners, and all gummy and swollen round his mouth. He's getting his new teeth tomorrow and he can't talk much. So when he pointed to his Bergen beside his bed and said "Letter", then "Bossman", I didn't get his meaning for a bit. But I caught on in the end and grabbed the envelope out and I opened it up right away when I could see your posh boy public school writing done with a poncy fountain pen. No common as muck 50p biro for Major James.

So, I'm sitting there leaning back in the chair with my feet up on his bed, looking forward to getting all the news about the lads and about you all winning the war in Kenya and I'm reading about giraffes and mascara and trees wot I've never heard of before and it's all very interesting, specially the bits that let me know you might be missing me as much as I miss you. You know, the romantic bits at the beginning of the letter, a bit like that poetry you read to me sometimes on a wet Sunday afternoon and we are in front of the fire, all curled up and sleepy without any clothes on.

Then I get to the bits where you are REALLY bossy, Bossman, and I've got all steamed up, Boss, all hot and bothered and Fingers looks a bit worried and asks me if I'm feeling OK and do I need a drink of water? I want to yell at him, "Drink of water? I need a pool full of water to jump into and cool down, I'm so hot!" Even that paddling pool wot your Mum sent to Afghan would have been a help.

Next minute, Fingers is looking out the corner of his big fat swollen eye and he's got that dirty-minded grin on his dial. You know, like the one he got when you yelled at Mansfield that his bunk was a mess and a messy bunk means a messy mind, didn't he learn that in Basic? And you pulled his mattress off and there was his stash of porn and he went even redder like he'd been outside in the Afghan sun all day without his hat on or no sunblock. Fingers, he's got about the dirtiest minded grin I have ever seen. We was all standing there at attention, following orders while you gave us a proper rinsing about what fucking useless soldiers we had turned out to be and how the Taliban would be able to find us all if we didn't learn how to keep ourselves and our kit shipshape and make our beds properly with mitred corners. I still can't make sense of that, Boss.

I look sideways at Fingers and I can't help it and we both burst out laughing. You were so angry that we laughed you sent us both on a five mile run in the boiling sun, full kit on our backs. That calmed me down big time, as I remember. Fingers and me were too knackered to hardly breathe after that lot.

Anyway, Fingers, wot's supposed to be almost dying of pain after his teeth are pulled out and with his two rainbow shiners, leans across and tries to snatch my letter. Good job I didn't let him get it. It would of been embarrassing if he told the lads about them lacy white knickers and fancy booze and food what's meant to make you feel even more sexy than usual. I don't know why you would need that sort of stuff, Bossman, you do pretty well without it and I might gonna find I can't keep up with you. As if! Tough as nails, me.

So I stuffed the letter down my bra, not a flash white lace one but a non-bounce job like a Serena Williams one for under my sports gear, which is wot I had on 'cos I planned to go to the gym after seeing Fingers and I decided that's wot I would do, run it off. I mean how was I going to get on for the next twelve weeks if I blushed and my blood pressure amped up every time I thought about you and all the kinky stuff you've put in my mind with your letter? I ran and ran after I threw my bergen in the car and I found a stone seat at the top of a hill where there wasn't many trees about and sat down and read the letter about twenty times. Honestly, Charles, I felt like you were next to me and whispering all your wicked ideas in my ear, all them naughty things in your best posh voice wot always turns me on and I was STILL hot as hell and my mind was STILL running away with me. So that fucking run didn't do much good at all, innit?

Well, Boss, I've decided that your orders are probably gonna work out fine for me, too. If you can remember, every time we've been apart, I haven't wanted to talk much for a while, just get on with the action, so that won't be a problem. I've done some of the shopping already, the stuff that won't go "off", like the wine and the bodywash for you and my Narciso perfume. I'll have to get the other stuff a bit closer to the time you get back.

I'll get some whipped cream and some of the yummy dark chocolate mousse you like so much, Boss, you know, the ones in the aerosol cans. I was surprised they weren't already on your list. I remembered how much you loved all the desserts you made with them when we were on our holiday. Only trouble was you're greedy and licked most of it up before I even got a chance to try it out. So I 'll get the large sizes, just to be fair this time, I've got some ideas about how they would taste best, and where. Trouble is, thinking about that makes me hot, too. I have to go and have a lie down now, it's nearly midnight. Tomorrow I'll finish this letter and take it to Fingers . I'm putting a seal on the envelope so you'll know if he's tried to open it and read it, filthy minded sod that he is. Put him on a charge if he tries it on, Boss.

OG

July 12th 2016

So, I'm onto obeying your orders Boss. It were a good thing I found out about your leave so early. I might of missed out if Fingers didn't bring me that letter. And it's a good thing that you're happy for me to talk to Qaseem. Fact is, Boss, I have been already and I'm going to be seeing him next week. WAIT FOR IT! In Greece!

He asked me to come and help him on a big island called Lesvos. He's going to be an interpreter with Afghan refugees trying to get into other countries. He said things were bad in Kabul again with the Taliban and he wants to get out for a while, not just him, though, Charles. He has a big sister who is a teacher, too, only she works with little kids the same ages as my little bleeders. She has been looking after some orphan kids in her family home since her husband was killed a few years ago. Some other Afghan women have been staying with her too. Qaseem told me that widows get pushed around in Afghan a lot of the time. They ain't got no pension or sometimes even a house to live in and sometimes it's like they don't even exist anymore. They just sit at the back of their relatives' houses and keep their mouths shut. Qaseem's sister has got a whole lot of widow women to help look after these kids and they stay at her house cos her Old Man was very rich and treated her very well. Or something like that, I'm not sure.

Guess what though, Charles? One of the kids is Bashira. Where she was stopped being safe and she needed somewhere to go. Qaseem made sure she could go to his sister and the other women and you wouldn't read about it, one of them was Bashira's mum who helped with the cooking for all the kids. Qasseem said I will find out what her story is and it'll make me want to cry, it's so sad and then so happy when she found Bashira. The mum's name is Samira.

I always felt bad about Bashira's mum. It must of been real scary bringing her girl to us for treatment when Badrai hit Bashira in the face. Afghan women aren't supposed to talk to men and she stood up to you and Sohail and Qaseem to get help. And you were pretty shit and all Bossman, the British bleedin' officer, to her. And then her husband puts an explosive vest on Bashira and we rescue the kid and make her disappear and she has no idea what happened to her kid. Man, she must be one tough lady, probably a lot like my mum with a dead useless old man. Only hers up and got himself killed.

The Red Cross want Qaseem to be the leader of a team to work in the big refugee camp on Lesvos and he says "Yes", but only if he can take his own team of workers with him and can get them papers and safe passage out of Afghan. When he goes to Greece next week, he will have three cooks, a nurse aid and an infant school teacher in his team. I was the mystery prize, he told me, cos they had to have a trained medic to treat and vaccinate the little kids. Plus he put me down as the foster aunty of one of the big kids, so the Red Cross would know I was "family" and get exit papers ready for her as well. He is a very clever man, is Qaseem and I love him heaps, like another dad.

I've shocked myself at how big a letter I've written you. Before I started loving you so much I wouldn't of believed that I would be able to write one page and this is heaps of pages. I didn't even think about that when I were writing it, Charles. Probably heaps of mistakes, from not listening in class when I bothered to go to school. You know what I told you they said about me at school, if I had half a brain I'd be dangerous.

You make me believe in myself and you understand when I want to do new things and to take risks, Charles. You said you want me to be brilliant. You love me. You don't try to cage me and you let me be free. That's why I feel safe going to Lesvos to meet up with Qaseem and the others and to vaccinate all them poor kids against the chickenpox and the measles and cholera.

I emailed the woman at the Red Cross who's been helping me get stuff together for Lesvos and arranging for me to catch a lift on a plane taking relief supplies and I told her that I had to be back in Britain for something that was a matter of life and death, Boss. Said I wouldn't be going otherwise. Course its life and death, for me, at any rate.

I promise to carry out your orders to the letter, Bossman. Probably add a few extra touches of my own. I'll have plenty of time to dream up some well dirty-minded schemes at night on Lesvos. I don't know much about the place yet except that's where ouzo was invented and we are not allowed to drink any alcohol at all during our tour… I'll look forward to champagne with you when you get home, but not straight away.

Only one request. Just make it a very short shower, Boss. We can always have another long, hot shower together, much later.

Charles, I love you so much I do ache all over for needing you.

Your Molly

 _ **I always appreciate your reviews of my work. The 'smaller" characters and incidents in these stories fascinate me and tempt me to explore their (fictional) worlds, mostly from my imagination. Thank you, once again, Tony Grounds and the BBC.**_

 _ **When I was a kid, devouring books about legends and mythology at a rate of several a week, my father, who was a dour and pragmatic returned serviceman, regularly criticised my "fantasy world" as he called the time I spent dreaming and reading and writing. I took his words as compliments.**_


	6. Chapter 6

BLOODY FINGERS

 _ **This has taken longer than I planned to write because I have been distracted by the recent events in Europe which have had a direct impact on our family. OUR (Own) GIRL, who is 19 and a wide-eyed Kiwi adventuress, not unlike Molly in her feistiness and determination, was on a Contiki tour which got caught up in the Nice tragedy and then, believe it or not, went to Munich where they all ended up holed up at floor level in a strange building waiting for a shootout to finish. We have been willing her around the rest of her trip and are all glad that she's back in England tonight with her English granny in the Midlands. Scary stuff, so I know what Charles is probably feeling about Molly being on Lesvos, now that he knows.**_

"Bloody typical Dawsey!" he exploded. "Start with the hot stuff, drop in the tough bits in the middle, finish on a fucking promise!" No acknowledgement, of course, that he had started it all…

As it turned out, Fingers hadn't got back to the Kenyan base quite as quickly as they'd all planned for. There had been some complications, but he seemed OK now, though light duties were all he was allowed for another couple of weeks. Already he was milking his semi-invalid status for all it was worth, skiving off from any task that looked like it might involve the smallest amount of effort and coming down with convenient aches and pains whenever either of the two pretty young medics were on duty. As the major observed, Fingers could do a really good line in fevered brow around the two girls, both of whom seemed to be taken in by his well-practiced charm offensive. Molly would have been onto the lazy sod straight away, he thought, just as Lane was the minute Fingers tried on the sad act with her.

"Private," Lane had interjected when he was pulling the sympathy vote from her "girls", "light duties does NOT mean no duties. We all have to pull our weight around here. Here, attend to these." And she had dragged an enormous basket of freshly washed crepe bandages in front of him. "And do it neatly and fasten each one with a safety pin." It was, she thought, a testament to his skill at the charm offensive that the two silly tarts were still hovering, making him cups of tea and listening to his bullshit tales of his past heroics in Afghanistan, even as he wound bandages in the medic's office. "And you two!" she had barked. "Get on with checking the inventory and putting the replacement supplies away. Snap to it, there's a lot more you need to get on with after that."

Major James glanced into the clinic as he arrived at Lane's adjoining office for their daily briefing meeting. It was very satisfying, he thought, that Lane had sussed Fingers out very quickly and had him doing such boring chores. He well understood the soldier's love of excitement and need for action and had not been able to think of a suitable revenge for the dirty trick Fingers had played on him earlier in the week.

OG

Charles had been very aware of the need to maintain his dignity around the 2 Section lads when it came to his relationship with Molly. He had made it very clear to them that the subject was not up for any kind of discussion, in fact, he didn't even acknowledge publicly that there was a relationship. But they knew, oh, how they knew! She was their beloved Dawsey, their sister, and Charles knew he was on a promise of retribution from all of them should he do anything to hurt her. So it had been very tricky for him to ask Fingers to take a letter for her back to England. He had made some reference to getting her to do some shopping for him, stuff he couldn't trust to a useless male like Fingers. It only took one raised eyebrow for Charles to realise that the soldier was onto him, bigtime. He really did need to get a real message to her, so he decided to take the risk and turn Fingers into a courier service mainly because Fingers would do anything for Molly and would not want to hurt her by not treating such a letter with respect. Charles realised he had to trust Fingers with this task.

So on the day Fingers was choppered back into camp, Charles was acutely aware of the irony of his situation. He had been here before, in the Afghan FOB, waiting for Molly and Smurf to land and look where that had gotten him. He hung off the fringe of the group of soldiers as they greeted their mate and collected their booty from his back pack. The usual, sunblock for Mansfield, chocolate for one, toothpaste for another… Excitedly, they made their way back to barracks, leaving him there.

No letter? No reply? Had the shite actually gotten HIS letter to Molly? What the fuck was going on? His head raced with all sorts of scenarios. Had she given up on him? Was she tired of waiting out for him? Didn't she love him any more? Had he made an absolute arse of himself with his very personal letter? Had he put her off him? Added to this he had emailed her, as they had agreed, twice weekly just to say hello, no controversy, no personal stuff. It dawned on him that the only response he had for the past couple of weeks had been an out of office acknowledgement.

All that night he agonised over his need for her. If she did not want him any more, then Charles did not know how he would go on. Molly had taken his heart by storm and she fucking owned him, had done so since the minute he had first laid eyes on her on the tarmac at Brize Norton. Never before had he experienced that lurching sensation in his gut, the heat in his hands and head, that instant realisation that his world had changed in an instant and nothing would, could ever be the same for him now that he had seen her. For a cynical soldier like him, falling instantaneously in love was a ridiculous idea but it had happened and he had fought it hard for a very long time. He had finally given up the fight as Molly and he had advanced on the bloody bundle that turned out to be Sohail on that dusty Afghan road. She had asked him point blank whether he loved her and he had not had the chance to tell her he did until much later.

But love her he did, and she was The One and no one else would ever do and this tour to Kenya had only confirmed how small and empty and lost he felt without her. His physical desire for her was, at times, unbearable and his letter to her had been an outpouring of that need. He had trusted her with his whole self in that letter and now he wasn't even sure she had it. Asking Fingers in any more than a casual aside would be an admission that there was personal importance attached to the letter and that would give Fingers power over him.

All this was exactly the kind of stuff that underpinned the rules the Army made about banning personal relationships between soldiers serving together, particularly between officers and those in the ranks. He would just need to suck it up and see what happened. He recalled a small detail he hadn't thought much about when the soldiers had headed back towards the barracks after the chopper arrived. Fingers had glanced back over his shoulder and had looked directly at him, then turned quickly to the front. If he didn't know better he might think Fingers had challenged him to say something… bastard!

So life went on in the Kenyan FOB and no one was going to find out from him that he was churning up inside because the woman he loved didn't seem to want him any more, hadn't even had the decency to tell him so directly. Actually, he was beginning to feel a bit embarrassed about the stuff he put in his letter to her. Did he come on too strong? Make her feel uncomfortable? His head was running away with him but he had to keep up the stoic officer act.

OG

Three days later he was sitting at his worktable dealing with the usual daily list of tasks to be done or delegated. There was the familiar slap of hand on canvas tent flap which serves as a knock on the door and at the command to "Come", Fingers stepped into the tent, holding out a crumpled and dirtied envelope. Curiously, it appeared to have a lump of red wax. A seal? In this modern day and age? Who would use a seal and why, for fuck's sake?

"Found this at the bottom of my bergen, Sir. Must have forgotten it. Sorry, Sir." Her handwriting, curiously childlike, was instantly recognisable. He swallowed hard, keeping a tight rein on himself so he didn't erupt in rage as he noticed Fingers watching him closely. "Thanks," he muttered, holding out his hand, eyes still deliberately fixed on the document in front of him. The minute he was alone he stuffed the letter into his breast pocket and headed for his personal quarters., slamming the door and locking it so he couldn't be interrupted.

"Get a grip, Charles!" he told himself. His heart was hammering and he noticed a cold sweat break out between his shoulder blades The seal was unbroken. It looked like Molly had bought a cheap seal kit from one of the junk shops in the East End. Very effective, he thought and it was intact. So she had her doubts about Fingers being nosy, too. Tearing the seal apart he lay back on his cot, ready to find out her response to the letter which he seemed to have written to her ages ago.

He had excelled herself, had Molly. Not only had she come back to him in all her usual cheekiness, she had added some elements to their projected reunion that even he had overlooked. How could he have doubted her? How could he have overlooked the whipped cream, especially on her…? His heartrate was climbing, rapidly. Or the chocolate mousse piped delicately in two rosettes each with a maraschino cherry on top. What fun it had been to lick them up, slowly, not greedily, knowing the extra delights which lingered for him underneath the chocolate layer. Fuck, the very thought of the cream and chocolate mousse was driving him nuts. He really did need to calm down and read the rest of the letter.

So she plays a cool game. Leads him on. Says she'll play, oh yes, will she ever play. Promises, promises. They just need to wait out. For a few weeks. And then comes the sucker punch. She's really good at the unexpected, at taking risks without any thought of how other people, him mainly, might feel about it.

First there was her tempting Taliban marksmen to take potshots at her as she was winched into a helicopter. Then there was the small matter of standing directly in front of a kid wired up in a suicide vest. And her fearlessness as she attended to two injured soldiers, one of them him, critically wounded, then took aim and shot dead the insurgent who was responsible. At least he had been there, near her during all those incidents. How he was going to deal with her being on Lesvos in Greece was beyond him, so close to Turkey which was in chaos after a failed revolution and from where so many refugees poured in on a daily basis.

Thinking about Molly putting herself at such risk again was doing his head in already. How would it be over the next twelve or so weeks? She hadn't replied to his emails so all he could think of to do was to contact Qaseem, already on Lesvos.

 _ **Please read and review. That's the only way I really know whether you are interested in this "side story." Back to Molly and the Lesvos people next chapter. It's a wee while till their leave. I'll bet they'll be really up for it by then. I'm certainly getting all sorts of telepathic messages about what they intend to get up to during that fortnight…**_


	7. Chapter 7

YASSAS, LEVROS!

 _ **So, after a lot of faffing around, Molly has finally made it to Mytilini Airport ready for her volunteer tour on Lesvos with the Hellenic Red Cross. Qaseem is serious about taking good care of her. Some of her home people have done special things to support her work with the refugees, particularly the kids. Charles needs to wait out now.**_

Once Molly had dropped off her letter to Fingers she turned her whole attention towards her mission to Greece. Timeframes were tight. Only days remained before the scheduled flight to Lesvos and she needed to gather up the medical supplies she would need, getting them counted, labelled and packed securely. In Greece she would be attached to the Hellenic Red Cross and their liaison person she was working with impressed upon her the need to take personal charge of her own precious cargo. Thievery was rife, people were desperate and Molly would need protection on the way to and from the airport on the island.

In the London Red Cross HQ, Molly leaned over the desk, working her way through a mountain of paper, ticking off lists, compiling a list of contacts on Levros and back in London, writing a shopping list for last minute personal stuff. Deep in concentration, she didn't take much notice at first of the tall, lean dark haired young man who hovered near her waiting for her to lift her head. Not until he dropped his rangy frame into the rickety office chair, lifted his very long legs onto her desk, crossed his ankles and let out an exaggerated yawn clearly designed to communicate boredom did she acknowledge his presence.

"Shit, you scared me!" she exclaimed. "Who the fuck are you, putting your dirty boots all over my inventory?" The smile was lazy, the eyes dark and he looked like he could do with a haircut. He would have been in his late twenties, early thirties maybe, but when she looked into those dark eyes, Molly sensed that he had seen enough for someone who had been on the planet for much, much longer. She had heard people described as "old souls "and thought that was a lot of cobblers, all that reincarnation bullshit and fortune telling crap. But this one was clearly very different and he WAS older than anyone else she had met for a long, long time even though he didn't appear to have any more than thirty-five or so years. He looked so very sad, she thought.

"You are as beautiful as Qaseem told me. And your language is not, how do you say? Ladylike? He warned me about that. Said I might have to learn to not notice that. He loves, you, my uncle. Forgive me for being rude, I am Malik and I am here because my uncle wants me to help you to get to Levros."

"Since when do I need a man to look after me? What's up with Qaseem? I thought he knew I can look after myself."

"He does, Miss Dawes, he does. It's just that things are very bad on Levros right now and he wants you there as soon as possible. And safely. I have promised my uncle to get you there and to deliver you to him, in person, with all your bags and boxes. I am to be your bodyguard, he said. And he told me to say to you, that there is not an answer "No!" to this. You must say yes, or you must stay here."

"I'm going to call him, then."

"It is hard to get a call through to the camp where he is. He has given me a note for you. He wrote it in a hurry because I had to leave at short notice when a place became available on a returning relief flight. So, here is my uncle's note. Here am I, Malik the son of his sister who is a teacher."

The note was brief and to the point, probably written in a hurry, but the signature was familiar from Afghan days. Sometimes Qaseem had helped her with her stocktake as he taught her the Pashto words for various bits and pieces in the medic's tent. She smiled at the memory of the gentle Afghani teacher with his measured words about his beloved lost wife and daughter as he ticked the boxes on her list and countersigned each sheet. Molly treasured the memory of those times with the man she had come to regard as almost a second father. He was looking after her still, she realised, by sending this tall man with the sad smile as her escort to Greece.

"Thanks," she said. "If you're coming with me, then you can help me with some of this." Flicking her head towards the pile of bags and boxes against the wall she smiled. "Don't know how I would of got it all off the plane at any rate!"

"My uncle has arranged for a Jeep to pick us up from Mytilini Airport. We are going there on a Red Cross charter flight with some other people and supplies like tents and blankets and clothing. He said it would be important for us to keep your medicines separate from all that stuff so you can start using it straight away." Molly was beginning to like the sound of Qaseem's arrangements. If she were honest, the thought of organising all that stuff to some foreign island hundreds of miles away had been a bit of a worry, to say the least of it. And there was more stuff to come.

"I have to go home to my family for the next two days. I have things to collect from there. What're you going to do till we leave?" she asked.

"I will be looking at some of the famous football places in London. I have never been here before but I am always loving Chelsea, since I was a small boy. I will go and see Stamford Bridge, I think."

A grin began to flicker around Molly's lips and there was mischief in her eyes. Chelsea, indeed! This here Malik needed to find out about a decent football team, not any poncy Chelsea.

"Where you staying, mate? You should come home to mine. I've got a proper football club. Me dad might take you and I might tag along for the ride." Molly did not tell him that she had become a touch stone for the Hammers, that they were mightily proud of their small soldier with the Military Cross from her brave deeds on tour in Malik's country. Personally, she found all the fuss embarrassing. She was glad when the attention went off her as the West Ham faithful had turned their attention in recent months to their shift from Upton Park to the new stadium which had come out of the London Olympics. It had been fun to just be able to go along to the home matches, to sing and chant, to get slightly pissed when they lost and totally rat arsed when they won, which had been quite a lot over the past season.

She and Charles, before he went on tour in Kenya, had gone their separate ways as far as ball games went. She couldn't understand or even begin to enjoy his posh boy rugby and his toffee nosed public school mates at the Bath club. And he didn't do loud stands full of East Enders yelling abuse at whoever the opposition was. The one time he had been to the Boleyn Field with Molly he had watched open mouthed as she transformed into the female version of a football lout alongside her father, Dave, who actively encouraged her to yell, swear and catcall at the top of her voice. When he had passed a mild comment about her astounding loudness, she had looked at him in amazement.

"But that's football, innit? That's wot we DO!" He had decided, ruefully, that it might be what she did, but as for him, he thought he'd leave her to it, with her dad, as it had been since she was a small girl.

Molly had been asked to call into the new headquarters before she left on this new mission. As usual, Dave had been bragging about her going off to "Save the world," as he called it to his new found mates at the club as he basked in her reflected glory. She found it all a bit tedious but she had noticed that her dad had begun drinking less since he had attached himself to a team of juniors at the club and that he was showing a whole new sense of purpose as he helped to coach the team of little bleeders that included one of her brothers. Actually, it gave her a warm feeling inside as she watched him pull a pair of trackies over his customary pants, tuck a ball under his arm and head off to practice with her brother in tow.

Malik was hesitant at first, but Molly texted her mum to say she would be bringing an Afghan friend home for a couple of nights. She added that the visitor was male, well fit and that Nan would probably find him appealing. Her mum fussed about the state of the house, all the usual shit, but Molly brushed that to the side.

"We're on our way this afternoon, Mum," she said. "I promised Jade I would be at her school for her History lesson after lunch. They're studying the war in Afghanistan and in Syria. I'm gonna take this real life Afghani with me. They'll all be well impressed. This friend, Malik, Qaseem's his uncle. He ain't posh, he can kip in our settee in front of the TV. Might be a bit long though, he's tall and skinny, like Charles. Probably have his legs hanging out, just like Charles." She smiled at the memory of her Mr Posh Boy cramped up on the Dawes' family sofa which had had its fair share of spilt beer, crumbled potato chips and baby sick over the years. Charles had manfully ignored the state of the upholstery, but Molly knew it probably stank. From what she had noticed so far about this Malik, she wondered whether he had slept in far worse places than the Dawes' messy lounge…

OG

Jade had told her to call at the front office and let the school know when she arrived. She should have smelled a rat when Mrs Foster, the headmistress, was waiting for her. In the past that would have been a very bad sign for schoolgirl Molly. This time she greeted her former student enthusiastically, commenting that it wasn't every day one of her ex-pupils came back as a hero. She welcomed Molly's tall Afghani companion warmly, commenting that the students were in for a real treat.

"Miss, I'm just coming to help out me little sister with her history project," Molly protested. "I'm goin' away again and I won't be round for a while…Tho how she thinks I could help I dunno, Miss. You know how dumb I were at my school work, me 'n History 'n all."

"It seems to me you've been making History, Molly." Mrs Foster smiled as she tapped on the Social Sciences classroom door. As it swung open, Molly was astounded to find the whole room was packed with students and with teachers. Jade sat in the front row, her smile the widest Molly had ever seen. These were the kids from their patch and Jade was so proud of her sister she thought her heart might burst. She had no idea who the tall stranger was, he looked foreign and he hung back behind Molly, looking bemused by the buzz of conversation until Jade stood up and spoke.

"This is our Molly an' she's a soldier an'' she's been to Afghan. She got a medal for bein' brave an' we was scared she wouldn't come back last time. But like I told you History kids before, she's going to Greece to help with the refugee kids and …." Molly stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Jade's shoulder. She loved this little sister dearly and knew how difficult it must have been for her to speak up in front of so many of her mates, she was usually that shy!

"Hi, everyone this is Malik and he has just arrived from Afghanistan to help me take all my gear to Greece." With a huge conspiratorial wink. she beckoned him forward. "He might gonna have to protect me from them Afghan kids 'cos I'm a medic an' my job is to give them their vaccinations. Don't know if they'll take kindly to me sticking needles into them!" A collective groan went up as the kids thought back to their own recent booster jabs. "Better than dysentery an' measles an' chickenpox in them crowded camps."

Mrs Foster spoke up." Molly, we wanted to do something to help. The students have had a week of fundraisers, all sorts of things and we have spent all the money we raised on coloured pencils and felt tips and paper so that the children in the camp you are going to can keep on with their lessons." Malik spoke for the first time. Soft spoken and in heavily accented English he told the students about his mother, the teacher, and that he had been planning to go shopping this very afternoon for teaching materials she had asked him to find and pay for with her own money. Not only had their generosity saved him time but he now had some funds that he could use to buy sporting gear for the camp kids. His mother would truly be delighted.

The youngsters listened, entranced, as he told them stories about some of the kids he had met and suggested that they might like to email the camp school and make friends with the Afghani pupils. There were a couple of old computers and most emails got through. Malik thought they might learn History by becoming witnesses to it, and from talking to kids in the middle of its making. Molly noticed that two tears ran down his cheeks as he spoke and as the kids in front of him responded enthusiastically to his suggestion.

Mrs Foster sensed that the visitors' time was becoming an issue and suggested that they all take some photographs so that Malik and Molly could show the Afghani kids in Greece where the art materials had come from. One of the staff would meet them at the airport with the boxes on the day of their flight.

OG

Molly had decided that time was short and she couldn't wait for her dad to find his way out of the pub, always a random event. So the last call was across town to the new home of West Ham United, where Molly was met by her friend, Winston Reid. Malik was obviously in awe of the talented Kiwi player, even more of Molly's easy friendship and banter with this super star of professional football. He was treated to a quick tour of the new player facilities and was allowed to walk out onto the middle of the pitch, at Molly's request. The visit was short, its true purpose made clear as they were about to leave.

"I hope you can carry these back to Molly's house, Malik. We've got another bag of stuff here seeing as you've turned up to help our Mini-Molly carry two instead of one. We hope you can use these to help the kids in the camp on Levros. We've all seen stuff on tele about the tough stuff there." In the club gear bags were ten footballs, all regulation West Ham, a pump and a set of practice shirts. Malik was obviously delighted, Molly pleased enough though she asked where the whistles were and insisted that three were necessary. Malik hefted the bags onto his shoulders with ease, as the pair set off for the Dawes home. Molly was sure Dave and Nan and the bleeders would make Malik welcome in their own inimical way. That would leave her and her Mum some time alone to say their goodbyes and for Molly to leave her contact details, and Charles's, safely behind.

OG

The midday heat hit her full on as she hefted her bergen onto her back, picked up the two kit bags with the most precious of her medical supplies and walked down the opened ramp in the belly of the supply plane. Malik had promised he would look after the rest of the stuff they had brought with them. She paused at the end of the ramp, took a couple of slow belly breaths and scanned the smallish gathering behind the Customs barrier. There was the familiar stocky and bearded man whose call had led her here. Beside him she could just make out a shorter female form dressed in rainbow colours and…yes, she was holding a brightly coloured staff above her head so that it floated gracefully in the faintest of Greek breezes. Stepping down and out into the Mediterranean heat, Molly headed off first to Greek Customs and then towards Qaseem and Bashira. She was ready now. YASSAS, LEVROS!

OG

TEXT TO PRIVATE I-PHONE, KENYA

M just arrived safely. Looks well. Will look after her. Will keep in touch. Trust me. Q

 _ **I have appreciated your reviews so far. They really help especially when I'm writing about some of the newer events involving our people. Please keep on letting me know what you think.**_


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

BEAUTIFUL BASHIRA

 _ **So I have returned to Greece, where Molly is about to find out soon that her mission will need to be shortened as she has been called back to Afghanistan. This is news to her and to me! She has got some people to meet first and a raft of vaccinations to give before she can head back home and a shortened, but intense catch up with Charles as promised in their letters.**_

"My, 'aven't you got tall!" Their eyes were on the same level, Molly realised, as Bashira clung to her. And Bashira wasn't a child any longer. Already her limbs were lengthening and taking on the shapeliness of young womanhood. As Molly held Bashira's shoulders and stepped back to look at her, she took in the slenderness of her waist as well as the breast buds just obvious under her light weight garment. The significance of these observations were not lost on Molly: Bashira would need careful protection now. She had heard rumours that refugee women were often very unsafe in the camps on Lesvos and in other places. It was good that a number of smart and strong women now seemed available to help Bashira blossom safely into womanhood. Molly was surprised how grateful she felt that this was so. And that the young woman now had an adopted "uncle" who was taking up the role of trusted father figure.

Qaseem gestured unobtrusively to Bashira that she should now cover her hair with the scarf she had been dreamily floating through her fingers in the breeze above her head. Molly felt a shiver of sadness between her shoulder blades as Bashira complied with Qaseem's request. This was, she thought, a perfect illustration of the transition into adult life for Afghani girls, the covering of the natural beauty of her shiny, thick black hair, so as not to be a temptation to any men. And there were Afghani and Syrian men about, looking balefully at the little group of Afghani and English friends. Molly thought she could hear some hissing and realised that she was quite frightened without the protection afforded in the past by her military uniform. Here she was just a very small woman in jeans and a puffer jacket, feeling a vulnerability she had never known before, even in the FOB in Afghan.

As Qaseem gathered them in close to him, telling her how pleased he was that she had arrived, Molly realised he was scanning the airport, looking for someone, Malik probably. She could just make out his lean, tall frame in the distance, pushing a large freight trolley in front of him. Behind him, two other men were doing the same and Molly recognised the boxes of stationery, footballs and medical supplies amongst assorted containers of all manner of stuff destined for the camp. As the men drew level with them, Molly felt her shoulders drop in relief. She had not realised just how tense the atmosphere in the airport had been and wanted only to be out of it.

Malik hugged his uncle and led them out to where a dubious looking truck and a battered Jeep, probably dating from the 1950s, were quickly loaded up with their supplies. Molly insisted that her precious medicines were loaded where she could sit amongst them and keep her eye on them. This was after Malik insisted that a canvas cover be laid over the top of the Red Cross marked boxes because theft and strong arm tactics had been known at some of the checkpoints across the island as the refugees became increasingly desperate for help with injuries and illnesses. Once they were ready to leave, the containers loaded and tied down with an assortment of bungy cords and frayed ropes, Malik hauled himself on board, shifted a couple of boxes so there was a space on the flatbed of the truck and sat near Molly who was perched on a box marked Johnson and Johnson.

As they pulled out of the airport and headed towards Kara Tepe Refugee Camp, Molly and Malik carried on the easy conversation they had begun on the plane. She had told him about her tour in Afghan, how she had been so unprepared for the strangeness of it all, the heat, the hatred from the Afghan men, the way the women scurried about with their heads covered and their eyes downcast. She had told him how much she had admired Bashira's mother for standing up to both the Afghan and English soldiers in order to get medical attention for her daughter. She would no doubt be accountable to her Talibani husband for doing so and Molly understood that Samira, as she now knew her name to be, would more than likely be in for a beating.

"Samira is a very brave person," commented Malik, "Since that monster of a husband of hers died, she has had some very big struggles to survive, but she seems to have found a source of strength from somewhere, now that she has found her daughter once more. My mother found Samira in the house of an acquaintance. She was being treated as a slave, cooking for a huge family and not allowed out of the place. Sadly, many widows have been treated in this terrible way in Afghanistan for years. My mother has been looking to free women from lives like this."

Molly took some time to frame her reply to this information about Bashira's mother.

"Has Qaseem told you how Badrai died?" she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. Still the memory of that terrible day at the checkpoint where Badrai wounded both Captain James and Smurf before she shot him dead disturbed her sleep. Some nights the dreams were so haunting that she would cry out in her sleep and Charles would hold her tight in his arms whilst she wept. Often she would wake held close to his heart while he stroked her hair and whispered words of love and comfort into her ear.

A pang of pure homesickness caught her unawares as she waited for Malik's response. Every part of her ached for Charles' touch, the sound of his voice, the promises in his letter. God, he had such power over her, that she could be overwhelmed by the physical need for him to be alongside her, inside her, all around her, even in this ramshackle truck bouncing along the uneven road on Lesvos . Shaking her head to dislodge him from her immediate thoughts, a lost cause actually, she heard Malik.

"My uncle has told me of those events and also of your enormous bravery, Molly. He loves you as a daughter, I think, but has great respect for you as an honourable warrior as well. He told Samira the manner of Badrai's death. Samira has learned to keep her own counsel to protect herself, but I am fairly certain that she is very grateful to you. She has told my uncle that she is looking forwards to your arrival."

 _ **So now Molly will meet the women who form the backbone of Qaseem's mission on Lesvos. She'll need to work smart and hard so that she can get the job done before meeting up with Charles as planned and then heading back to Afghan. Major Beck is looking for her, a little earlier than she expected.**_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 _ **It has taken me a while to pick up the threads of this story again and I'm feeling guilty because I know how desperately Charles wants Molly to finish her job In Greece. After all, he's on a promise, actually a number of detailed, delicious and altogether delightful promises as described in earlier chapters of this, Molly's story. Manfully, he struggled through his need for her while keeping his Kenyan diary going and he'll be home just as soon as he finishes preparations for his new deployment in Syria.**_

 _ **Truthfully, real life got in my way for a bit, but I'm back on board and leading the way to their reunion, very soon, over on the Dark Side. It really will need to be in the "M" ratings, I believe. Some of those promises were downright dangerous to one's heartrate.**_

LITTLE AFGHANI BLEEDERS

Wearily, Molly dropped her small frame onto the sacks of rice. Stacked up in the medical tent, they were covered with tarpaulins to, hopefully, disguise their contents so that the black marketeers might be kept away during the night. The only way to get a few minutes' breather from the queues of mothers with little kids lined up for their shots was to close the tent flap firmly and ignore the long line for a short time. The rice sacks were not unlike beanbags and more than once she had dropped into a deep sleep the minute her arse hit the coarse sacking. The recurring nightmares had disappeared since her arrival in Greece. Molly wasn't sure whether that was because she was so utterly exhausted with the pace and volume of her work at the clinic. Certainly, she had woken up more than once after a catnap amongst the rice sacks.

Or perhaps the dreams had been messages in her sleep emphasising that she really did need to join the girl with the rainbow scarf, and quickly. This beautiful youngster on the brink of womanhood had already seen and experienced more than most other women would have to contend with during an entire lifetime. Bashira was finding the new environment in Greece challenging. For the first few days after Molly's arrival, she had been shadowed by the young woman almost constantly; she would sense a presence, and would turn to find Bashira walking a few paces behind her. Anxiety seemed to radiate from the slight adolescent form and the rainbow scarf, the one she had so exuberantly waved at Molly in Mytilini airport was wrapped firmly around her lustrous raven black hair. It was clear that Bashira did not feel safe.

Molly knew that it was only a matter of time before the two of them would need to have a careful and gentle conversation about how Bashira was coping with all the changes in her life. Only those who had been with her on the day her father offered her up as a Taliban sacrifice could know the full impact of that callous action on the eleven year old girl. Whether any attention had been paid to dealing with the after effects of that horrific day when both she and Molly might easily have been red misted was unlikely. There were just so many young people in this camp with horror stories and too few specialist resources to help them heal. The adults working with the refugee children knew full well that they were dealing with multiple cases of PTSD, just as virulent as those that both she and James had identified in the soldiers in their charge on tour in Afghan. It wouldn't be any different now for the Bossman and his soldiers in Kenya, either, amongst the thousands of refugee kids there.

The minute she ventured out into the clear white sunlight Molly would have some of the less timid little bleeders make a beeline for her, wanting to play and chase her about. Usually that was fun, a welcome break from sticking needles into an unending line of little ones, cleaning and dressing wounds, some of them old and infected, and reassuring anxious Afghani mums. Just today she had recalled going along with her own mum to take care of her tribe of brothers and sisters whilst one of the littlest – for the life of her, she couldn't remember which one – got his shots. Her job had been containment of the family flash mob in the doctor's waiting room, sorting out and damping down the squabbles, wiping the tears away, stopping the pushing and shoving as Belinda, her mum, held her little brother's chubby white arm out for the nurse and the needle.

As expected, the baby had yowled in indignation at the sharp pain. These Afghani children, several hundred by now who Molly had injected, very rarely cried out loud. If they were hurt by the needle, the most common thing that she noticed were big teardrops which ran silently down cheeks often sunken already by illness, hunger or exhaustion. Often all three. It was as if they had learned that crying was pointless. Such awful things had happened to these small people already that a needle prick was a very small matter indeed.

Over the few weeks she had been at Kara Tepe, Molly had noticed a slight change in the atmosphere, particularly around the children. Many had at first clung to their mothers, big sisters or aunties, faces turned shyly into the folds of the women's loose hijabs, often with their large sad eyes gazing shyly out from their beautiful black eyelashes. These eyelashes, curling and lustrous, reminded her of Charles, now in Kenya and utterly captivated by those he admired on the giraffes he frequently saw on the veldt. She noticed that the small smile which came naturally when she called Charles and his giraffes to mind began to connect with some of the little ones on their mothers' hips. Once or twice she had caught a sparkle in a pair of amethyst eyes and she was sure that at least one set of lips turned upwards when she gave a huge conspiratorial wink, or initiated a game of peekaboo behind the tent flap.

Just today she had been offered the gift of an angelic smile from a little boy who could not help himself when she pulled a cheeky face and poked her tongue out at him. What was real gold was the reaction from the little fellow's mum, who also smiled in response and acknowledged Molly with an almost imperceptible inclination of her head. Most often, the gaze in these endless pairs of Afghani eyes was so faraway and so disconnected from the endless queueing here in Kara Tepe camp for just about everything, that a smile was truly memorable.

Once again Molly thought about her own mother and the not infrequent disassociation from reality which was often Belinda's way of dealing with overwhelming pressures in her daily living. Not a matter of physical survival, of finding basic food and shelter for her kids so much as solo parenting her brood, the most demanding of whom had turned out to be a forty year old drunk "on the sick".

As she pulled herself from the rice sacks, shaking the sleepiness out of her nut, Molly swigged on her ever-present water bottle, wiped the sweat from her face and hands with sterile towels and headed for the tent flies just as a hand slapping on the canvas announced that she had a visitor. At this time almost every day Qaseem would call.

"I'm here to collate the papers, Molly," he announced, then started matching up the new vaccination certificate she completed for each child with the list of registered refugees he collected once every few days from The Hellenic Red Cross. "You have seen a lot of children already this week. How many are five years or more?'

"I think about forty already and it only Tuesday, Qaseem. I hope Kareema and the other teachers can fit them all in."

'At this rate, we will need to have two sessions at least each day, Molly. Still they arrive from Afghanistan and we cannot keep up."

The Red Cross authorities and the Lesbos medical authorities had become so concerned at the recent outbreaks of measles and chickenpox amongst the refugee children that they were absolutely forbidding attendance at the informal camp schools being run by women like Qaseem's sister Kareema. A major epidemic could have dire consequences for the youngsters, many of whom had little resistance to secondary infections after gruelling pilgrimages to the relative safety of Lesvos. Some had survived being lost overboard, quite a few had lost their entire families along the way.

These children were the most vulnerable of all the Afghan flotsam and jetsam. None of the adults who had taken on the responsibility for setting up the Afghani section of this camp had been prepared for the sheer number of little ones who were without mothers or fathers, any relations at all. Very quickly a system was set up to identify, rescue and 'adopt" the solo children, most often by finding an adult ready to take the spare child under their wing. Kareema had expressed serious misgivings about this practice because she could not be sure of the absolute safety of the unofficial adoptive parents. It did not take long before she had devised and put into practice a process based on her history as the head teacher in a girls' boarding school, where she had a reputation as a fearsome disciplinarian as well as the first person to talk to if you were in trouble, or sad, or lonely.

Kareema was an awesome woman. Molly had quickly established a mutually supportive working relationship with her and the two had set about their punishing work schedule. The children were their main focus. Both believed that routine, rest and recovery from the ordeals of their journeys to Lesvos were the best hopes of creating positive futures for the families under their care. The adults amongst the refugees were vital to the success of the mission. As the children's needs were slowly being identified and met, Kareema was working with the Red Cross and the team of Afghani women who had come from home with her to work. When it came to the safety of "her" children, Kareema was an unashamed snoop and control freak, almost.

"Allah's pity on anyone who hurts my babies, Molly! Already they have had to deal with too much. Let any man so much as look as them wrong in this camp and he will have me to contend with." There was no other word for it, she was ferocious.

The older woman's organisational skills were impressive. She had an instinct for identifying and recruiting people with particular abilities, then supporting them to use their talents for the good of the group. Samira had already demonstrated her considerable catering skills developed back in Afghanistan where her brute of a Taliban husband expected her to conjure miracles to feed the masses out of half a goat and a handful of wild roots and herbs. And that had been for his insurgent "brothers". How she managed to feed her children or herself had been of little concern to him.

Somehow she found food to supplement the basic rice, onions and a few spices which were their daily rations from the Red Cross. Once or twice a week there was meat or a few eggs. She was often seen in the early morning out walking on the hills, gathering leaves and flowers, bending gracefully and filling soft baskets which she had woven from the hemp in the emptied rice sacks. Just in the past few days Molly had noticed another, smaller form walking out to the field with her and, always, a tall male figure tailing them, letting any would be predatory men know that these women were precious and protected. Malik considered it a privilege to watch out for these brave and clever women. His uncle had told him the story of Bashira and her mother and the terrible way they had been torn apart. After that the younger man had gone out of his way to treat them with special respect and kindness.

"Molly! You're daydreaming again! Look!" Qaseem touched her lightly, pointing in the direction of two distinct lines of adolescent boys heading towards the football "pitch" which had been marked out by the men in the camp using left over paint from cans they had bartered for in the local market. "Pitch" was a euphemism, "paddock" more accurate given the clumps of tough native grasses, potholes and wavy boundary lines.

"More likely an invitation to a broken ankle or two than a football ground," snorted Molly. "Just making more work for me, Qaseem!" What really caught her attention were the contrasting strip the second line of boys were wearing. The West Ham maroon and blue had been her responsibility, gifted by her club along with other gear to bring with her to Greece

"Where did they get them Chelsea shirts?" The bright blues gleamed in the Mediterranean midday sun.

"Ask him yourself." Malik had detached himself from the back of the bunch and was suddenly there alongside her. Molly needed to crane her neck and squint her eyes to see his face

"Oi, where did you get them jerseys?" She realised she was quite put out. Malik had somehow stolen her thunder.

"You didn't think I was going to let you get away with showing me off to those Hammers and playing war hero to get that stuff? I wrote to the Chelsea team and told them of our visit to the new West Ham field. I challenged them to send us the same amount of gear and I laid on the guilt trip really thick…is that how you say it? And this gear turned up with the last lot of Red Cross supplies in only a week!"

Molly burst out laughing. "So now we can have real matches, eh, Malik?''

"Look what I have to wear, Molly," he boasted, taking off his hoodie to display a brand new and resplendent referee's uniform. "Now I look the part. What do you say, Molly? What about you, Qaseem? Madar-jan?" He sought the approval of his uncle and Kareema who had joined them to watch the passing parade of Afghani lads in their resplendent new strip. Their chests were puffed out and there was a sparkle and mischief in their eyes which was entirely normal for football loving teenage boys.

"The best part is that their fathers and uncles have all agreed to help. Some will be coaches, some will help with fitness. There are lots of jobs. Perhaps these people can have some normal things, just some fun… "

"It's brilliant, you're brilliant, Malik!" Molly jumped up and down in her excitement as Kareema and Qaseem strolled towards the large tent which was their office area. Laying a hand on her brother's arm to slow him down, Kareema spoker carefully.

"Brother, I worry that my bachem, my big son, has not yet settled down. In older times I would have negotiated with another mother for the hand of a good Afghani girl for Malik. But times have changed. This Molly, this clever little girl with the love of football and her big brave heart would be a fine match for her. I wonder, should I talk with her father? Perhaps telephone him in England?"

Qaseem roared with laughter. "I know you know the British don't arrange their children's marriages. And I have told you before of the great love affair I saw unfolding between Molly and her army Captain in Helmand. He is besotted with her, Kareema.

I get texts and emails nearly every day asking if she is safe and well. And when she speaks of him to me it is clear she still loves him just as much as then. Perhaps more. They are supposed to be together, Captain James and Molly Dawes. It is their kismet, my sister…

Excuse me, I have forgotten to tell her that a message has come for her from British Army Headquarters in London. A Major Beck. I met him in Bastion. Fine man! I'll just go and let her know she needs to phone Beck."

 _ **I would be glad of your feedback. Molly is getting close to finishing and getting back home. I know some of you have been wanting her to hurry up, so I'll urge her along over the next couple of weeks. Please review!**_


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

TEACH ME, SHOW ME

 _ **Molly has been completing unfinished business from her earliest tour of duty in Afghanistan. There were so many influences, so many events which have impacted on her life since that deployment. After what happens here, there is one more key task for her which I think she needs to carry out to create a clearway to her new life with Charles.**_

 _ **T**_ ea break usually found Molly asking Malik or Qaseem or one of the other reliable men about the camp to stand guard over her supplies while she ambled over to the school that Khanum Kareema and her band of Afghan friends had wrestled into being in a glorified hut. Most days she would stand on the sandy knoll which separated the clinic from the school and survey the school in awe for the amazing achievement it had become, in such a short time. The building had been due to be bowled over to make space for more and more tents to cope with the constant flow of new arrivals by land and by sea.

The "Headmistress" of this remarkable educational institution cajoled, threatened, threw tantrums, stood over Red Cross officials and generally made herself unbearable till she had an undertaking, in triplicate and signed by the highest "Higher Up' she could find that the hut would be left alone. Now it was , rather grandly and officially, redesignated the new Kara Tepe Elementary School, Teaching in English and Pashto. Thanks to Molly's remarkable work rate inoculating the backlog of Afghani refugee children, the "classrooms" flowed out onto mats made from the ubiquitous rice sacks. Sun shades created from the sacking were propped up on poles and Molly was fascinated to see that intricate fringing and needlework was appearing on the borders of the matting. As well, each child was seated cross-legged on an individual mat, name embroidered in the corner.

She had learned in quiet conversation with Qaseem that his sister had decided this was a way to include mothers in the workings of the school, to take some ownership of their children's learning. Clever, clever Kareema, she was determined that every one of these women who had survived the dreadful pilgrimage to this place of hope in Greece would have a stake in their children's future. What better way than to start than to encourage the creative talents these Afghan women had used in their painful, but past, lives to decorate and beautify the place of learning they were creating together. Each child WOULD have a mat, named and placed in position each day, denoting that he or she most definitely belonged here. And several times a day, these beautiful creations were turned over. The backs were just as beautiful as the fronts as the children rolled out these prayer mats, responding to the call of the _**muzzein**_ across Kara Tepe

What she was saying was simple, direct and so very important. Molly got it, straight off. Every one of these kids mattered and so did their mums. And what the mums had to offer was important because they were keeping alive the beautiful parts of the world they had left behind while there were new beginnings made. She had talked about it with Malik, who was so very proud of his own mother.

"I worry for my mother." He had confided in Molly one evening as they had sat down on the matting floor with a cup of the hot sweet tea which was Samira's specialty, along with fragrant almond and sesame biscuits hot from her earth oven. "In Afghanistan there were two different ways of knowing her. She is one of the lucky generation of women in our country, the older ones, the ones who had an education , the ones who were doctors and engineers and teachers, before the Taliban forced women back into their kitchens and made them cover their hair again and put on those hideous blue burqas, those "shuttlecocks" which make it almost impossible for our women to see or to do anything much My _**madar**_ was furious that she could not openly practise her profession. When my father was killed by mujahideen, she tried very hard to support us, but she was not allowed a job. We were fortunate, there were enough men to make money so we had just enough not to starve. It was hard…' Malik's voice faded and his eyes took on the faraway glaze Molly had noticed in so many Afghani faces.

"She must of been brave."

"Oh yes, _**madar-jan**_ is most definitely brave. Many in Afghanistan would say she took too many risks, She never took too much notice, even in the times of the Taliban, when people said women should not do certain things. She is not afraid of anyone. My father, when he was alive, he used to fear for her safety sometimes. The _**mullahs**_ spoke out against her, but _**padar-jan**_ was proud of his strong wife and would let no one hurt her. She has always said just what she thinks.'

"I've been trying hard to think who she reminds me of." Molly had laughed delightedly. "Me nan, she's just like me nan back in East London! Nan, she's right stroppy, don't take no prisoners, looks after us kids first, won't take no sh..! Whoops, sorry, Malik for the almost swearing. I were really excited, thinking about me nan. Sometimes I really miss her. She's still magic for me, like when I were a kid and we was poor and my old man were drinking away all our rent money and me mum were fair worn out with all the little bleeders, me nan could always find something for us kids' tea in her supermarket bags wot she always brought with her. And there were always a sweetie or two each in her pockets for after we ate our tea…I used to always think she were magic…"

When recalling the small, remembered feats of magic her nan brought into her often sad little life, Molly slipped easily into the language of those years. Malik noticed that even the tone of her voice was that of a much younger girl. This nan must have had powerful magic.

Malik broke into her stream of memories, a wide grin on his face, "It seems this Nan you talk of had _**jadu,**_ just like _**madar-jan!**_ "

"Dunno wot that is, mate, that _**jadu**_ **.** I just used to think me nan could do anything, that she were magical. It took me till I were a teenager to cotton onto where the food come from. Nan were an expert shoplifter, probably still is. Didn't have a lot of problems about nicking stuff when it came to making sure us little bleeders didn't go hungry. And me mum and dad didn't have too much trouble taking the food, neither."

" _ **Jadu**_ is magic, it's something only a few women have in my country. The women who have it can sometimes frighten people, mostly men who don't like women to be strong, to even talk much really. Men like the mullahs and the Taliban who are so afraid of women being seen and heard that they wrapped them up in blue shrouds for years, so they could be walking dead people. Except when they were cooks or cleaners or warmed their husband's bed. Jadu is mostly seen as witchcraft and the _**jadu**_ women who have it are mostly to be feared because they can make things happen which don't seem to be ordinary or usual.

From what I know of my mother, what people fear most of all is not the talismans she makes or the changes that seem just to happen around her as if by magic. It is her tongue and the truths it tells."

"Ha!" Molly remarked. "My nan were onto my dad. Could always find the right words to say how pants he were, And how his real pants was totally off-putting! I think you might be right about this _**jadu**_. I think lots of older women have it, though Malik. Different name for it in different places? I know an old Irish lady used to live near us who the local kids used to call a witch, lots of young mums wouldn't have no one else near them when they was having babies."

"I think you are right, Molly. Women are better at keeping their heads when things are hard, they look more carefully and remember things better. And they mostly think more about other people than men do, But I am being, how do you say it in English, a sexist pig? Usual state for us Afghani men, I sometimes fear, Molly?" Malik grinned in anticipation of a smart answer.

"I just think most women like wise and kind people," She surprised him with the reflectiveness of her response. He hadn't really thought of Molly as a deep thinker, rather an action woman. How utterly unexpected, these two Cockney women _ **, a jadugar**_ and a philosopher.

OG

This afternoon, Molly sat back on her heels right on the edge of the rice sack floor matting, watching Bashira out of the corner of her eye. Not for the first time she wished she had concentrated at school about one tenth has much as Bashira was obviously doing. She would have saved herself a whole lot of hassle when it came to her basic training and then combat medic theory classes. She had really struggled with the reading load to start with, mainly because she'd wagged school so often. Ruefully, she recalled joking about it with the Bossman on tour in Afghan. There was he with his posh boy voice and his English Literature degree from Oxford, listening to her awful Cockney twang wittering on about skipping her reading and writing classes at her East London primary school. Even now she cringed when she thought about how rough and unpolished she must have seemed to him at that time.

And yet, he had seen her. And had chosen her. One of the reasons for that turned out to be her insistence on getting involved where she saw injustice being done to this little girl. Molly had started out being friendly to the beautiful eleven-year old with her dazzling smile and had eventually saved her life. Along the way she had been told by the Bossman not to get involved with Bashira, on one occasion not even to look at her, on another to curtail medical treatment the girl needed as a result of her father's violence.

In the end, Molly had done exactly what her instincts told her was right even though several times she stood up to Captain James. Actually, she defied him, ignored his orders, challenged him he, the Sandhurst officer with four tours on his record, had watched and learned. From her, he told Molly, he had discovered that overall change came from taking care of the needs of the individual, a reversal of all he had thought to be true after all that boots on the ground experience.

As she watched Bashira painstakingly copy from the whiteboard, Molly glanced at the fancy pencil case she had chosen from the Camden markets and had filled with all manner of pens and pencils, gels and markers. She would never forget the look on Bashira's face when they had found some quiet time together to dig deep in Molly's bergen and retrieve the gaudily wrapped gift.

"Pens! You remembered, Molly,"

"That's how I met you, Bashira. Now there's no one to stop you from going to school. You've a lot of catching up to do, so there's lots of pens here for you."

"I will remember you every time I open this case, Molly."

It seemed to both that a circle would soon close. It was as if this part of their story, begun on a dusty Afghan track with the gift of a cheap Biro from a soldier's pocket would be completed here in the Kara Tepe camp as a bright and beautiful Afghani teenager claimed the education for which she had been longing.

"Bashira, you know I am going back to the army soon? I've almost finished the work I came here to do."

"You go back to the tall officer, too? The one with brown eyes? He looks at you all the time with those brown eyes, even when you are not watching, sometimes."

Molly found herself suddenly, inexplicably blushing. Were they really so obvious that even kids had noticed what was going on between them? Wrapping an arm around Bashira's slender shoulder, she pulled her in for a quick hug.

"What do you mean when I'm not looking, Bashira? Do you mean Captain James?"

"Yes, Molly, He looked at you like that from when you first came to our village. I think he loves you, Molly. His hard soldier face goes away when he looks at you and you do not know he is looking. His face is all soft and sometimes he bites his bottom lip when you are around."

Pulling herself to her feet, Molly dusted herself and headed back slowly towards the clinic, A small line was already forming outside, nowhere as long as it had been when she had first arrived on the island. She didn't think she would ever get used to the way these suffering women and children had learned not to make a fuss, but to line up quietly and wait for whatever happened next. Actually, it enraged her, but that was a battle for another day. And it wasn't hers to fight. That was something important she was learning, that she didn't have to do all the fighting. Sometimes other people needed the dignity of picking their own battles, and then setting out to win them for themselves.

Qaseem was running towards her, waving a sheet of paper,

"Molly, a phone message for you. Nothing bad, Charles is OK. It's from Major Beck, I think he got quite a surprise when he heard me on the end of the phone. He had no idea where you were, till he got your number from your mother. He needs you to phone him. Right away!"

OG

"Hello, Dawes. Feeling rested, are we? Hope so, because I'm afraid I'm going to have to call you back Qaseem tells me you've been doing a sterling job with the refugee children. I didn't realise that's what you were up to. Thought you'd be having a break. At the seaside? In the country? Bit of a busman's holiday really?"

"Sir, I…"

"Now, Dawes, I know where this is heading, what you were going to say. Listen up for a minute. We want you back in Afghan in three weeks' time. Things are heating up there again. Taliban up to their old tricks. Need to train some local medics. You did such a good job last time, you're the obvious choice…"

" **SIR!** "

"Wait, Dawes. I'm just getting to the next part. Did you hear me say "three weeks' time?" Qaseem assures me that leaves enough time for you to finish up what you are doing over there. Where in God's name are you, again, Dawes? Somewhere in Greece?

I've been on the blower to the Ministry and they tell me there is a new deployment to Syria going out at about the same time as you would be leaving for Afghan, Dawes. By my reckoning, if you wanted to catch up with some old colleagues who may be in that deployment, that's at least a ten day window, if you get my drift. You will just need a couple of days to gear up and collect your orders before flying out from Brize Norton.. Report to me eighteen days from now, Dawes."

"Yes, Sir, thank you , Sir."

"Right then. Just one caution, Dawes. Don't go overdoing it during your reunion with any former colleagues. We don't want you tired out before you get back to Afghan. If any of those colleagues are who I think they could be, you may find it wise to pace yourselves, what with strenuous deployments coming up. Bye, Dawes." The phone went dead.

"Dirty, dirty bugger!"

 _ **Sorry this has taken me a while. I have been caught up in a fascinating book about the challenges Afghani women have to deal with, still. "A HOUSE WITHOUT WINDOWS" by Nadia Hashimi. Well worth reading. That's where I found out about JADU. I was reminded of my own Irish great grandmother who was fey and who slipped between the worlds of the Old Ways and Catholicism with remarkable ease.**_

 _ **Also, we inhabitants of these Shaky Isles have been a bit discombobulated recently what with the earthquakes. It was good to see on our National News that the whales have been seen around Kaikoura again.**_

 _ **There is one more task for Molly before she heads back to the Bossman on The Dark Side. It has to be done and will set her free from any old baggage so that she can be as brilliant as he has always wanted her to be.**_


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

WE STRONG WOMEN

 _ **I "lost" the thread of this story for a few weeks as I needed to use my energy and creativity to deal with some major changes in my real life. Now I am back and want to see Molly negotiating the last obstacles created on her original mission. Then she will assume the full brilliance which Charles so much wants her to find. Qaseem has offered to helped to set up this very important work.**_

When all her tasks at the camp were completed to her own exacting standards, when her bergen was packed and the clinic left spotless for the incoming medic, she could begin to reflect on what had really happened for her at Kara Tepe. In the morning she would say her goodbyes to Qaseem and Malik, hug Bashira for the very last time, and take her leave of the dignified and gracious Afghani women who had been her companions for the past few weeks. Now she could begin to sort the whole experience out "in her nut", as she would have described it to her nan or her mum. Molly had been aware for quite some time that she was on this mission as much for her own benefit as she was for the refugee children. This had been a learning opportunity, the importance of which she was beginning to really appreciate as she reviewed the past few weeks.

OG

On that last Mediterranean evening, as the sun surrendered its intense heat to the gathering shadows, she ambled down to the beach. The white sand sifted between her toes as she wrapped her arms around her knees and gazed out over the ancient sea. Never had she seen such a deep and iridescent blue as belonged to these historic waters where so many journeys and battles and adventures had shaped the lives of countless generations before her. This sea and these islands had witnessed migrations and refugees, wars and peace, gods and kings, teachers and philosophers, farmers and seafarers for thousands of years. History was again being made in this ancient place and Molly felt that in some small way she too was a key participant in the changes happening in Kara Tepe. Her time here, though, was almost done.

Consciously and slowly, Molly breathed in the cooling air, noticing the faint scent of lemons and rosemary from the orchards on the nearby clifftop. Back in England she would find that either of these fragrances could transport her immediately back to Greece and to what she had found out about herself over the past few weeks. Without ever really thinking about it, when she and Charles eventually had their own first home and again when they needed to move house, she would look in the garden for lemons and rosemary. If they weren't to be found, she would search nurseries for plants in pots and would go to great lengths to nurture those she found. Rosemary was easy, it did well in poor soil and in windswept places. Lemons needed summer sun and shelter, to be grown in pots and to come inside during the cold seasons.

In time, a great passion for gardening would surprise and ultimately delight Molly. She would never lose her dislike of trees, particularly large deciduous planes which dropped leaves, creating slippery slush on the inner city streets of her East End childhood. What she did learn to nurture and love, in each future home that she and Charles found themselves, were herbs and small plants characteristic of each new place and easily transported in pots. Along with them travelled a grizzled Meyer lemon which was nurtured and fertilised and loved. Surprising them both, Charles was to develop a parallel love of cooking and particularly to seek out recipes which used the herbs she grew.

Of all her beloved herbs, these two would have power to evoke this interlude in Greece, at Kara Tepe. Lemon for tang and contrast to the sweet things of life and rosemary for remembrance.

OG

She had been in Greece just a short time, really, but the days had been long and busy. When she had finished her clinics each day she had found herself drawn to the Afghani women, spending twilight hours in their gentle good company, listening to their stories of a home and a way of life left behind. Molly found now that as well as close attention to the stories, she was seeking the similarities and differences in the events of her own life.

A sea change had occurred for her, too. Her "before" and "after" were punctuated by her recruitment into the army, theirs by the arrival of a brutal and illegitimate military force in every facet of their lives. The elders spoke of the times before the Taliban, when women could do and be anything they chose. Education had been open to all, though economic pressures had meant that not everyone, boys as much as girls, had families who could afford to pay for anything but the real basics.

Molly had been fascinated when listening to the conversations about the value these women had invested in either being educated or in providing for their children's ongoing learning. Truth be told, she had squirmed in embarrassment when she remembered her flippant comments to Charles about her own constant truanting as a youngster. When Kareema and the others had talked of their grief and shock at being forced back into their homes and into the blue "shuttlecock" burqas, she had felt ashamed of herself. She had felt sad as well, particularly for the women of Samira's generation who never had a chance to go to school. Most were illiterate.

Then she had felt a sense of triumph for Bashira and her friends who were slowly taking back their right to learn and to make good enough new lives, starting here again far away from Afghanistan. Their courage was undoubted: more than once she had asked herself how she would feel if she could not go home to England for the foreseeable future or if she was never to see her friends or neighbours again. Or if, the worst scenario of all, her family and home had been destroyed, leaving nothing of the past but memories and all -encompassing sadness..

So, these evenings had been times of quiet reflection for Molly as she had listened to the Afghani stories. She heard stories of profound changes in their lives, of the loss of family and friends, of resignation to the passing of the old ways. As well, she heard determination, courage and hope. These women were accepting changes in their circumstances brought about by events over which they had had no control whatsoever.

OG

After Major Beck's summons, Molly went immediately to her dear friend from Herrick days. She had learned to trust Qaseem with those things in her heart that she found hard to share with anyone, Even the Bossman. She still held back with Charles, not really admitting to herself her fearfulness, still, that he might think her silly and babyish. He may still, she thought, wake up and realise that she just was a little girl, too young for him, immature and not suitable in the long term as the partner of an officer in the British Army. All her insecurities flooded back.

"I need your help, Qaseem. Pretty much straight way. The army wants me back in Britain in a few days and I ain't done one of the things I came here for. I think it's the most important thing and I just ain't done it!" Her anxiety was palpable. Qaseem could see the tears brimming in her beautiful green eyes and her determination to hold them back. Her chin quivered, her hands clenched tight at her sides, her whole body shook with the enormous effort she was making to not act the cry baby her father had mocked her for being when she was just a nipper at the mercy of the local bullies. The Afghani had no way of knowing that this was the usual response of her father who dealt with his own inadequacies by turning his anger on her, blaming her for his inability to support and nurture her.

"What do you need, Molly? What is it I can do to help you with this big, big thing you have not done?" He patted the seat next to him at the mess hall table, and moving slowly and deliberately, steepled his fingertips, leaned on his elbows and, smiling, dipped his head slightly to one side. Molly understood instantly that she had all of Qaseem's attention. He was waiting quietly, and as was his way, letting her know that what she had to say was, at that very moment, the most important thing in the world. This was Qaseem's great gift, she thought, his patient and all-encompassing talent for listening, being present with another person in need of support and comfort. This she had experienced first in Afghanistan when she was trying to make sense of the craziness and carnage of life on active service. This was why she had so ardently wished that Qaseem might have been her real father.

"I feel real bad about Samira. Ever since Afghan I feel bad. Like I stole her little girl away by giving her stuff, and Bashira's father got angry with her and hit her in the face and tried to make her into a bomb and then Bashira got taken away and hidden from everyone, in a safe house and from her mother who musta been real panicky and it's all my fault that their family was mucked up and I should have listened to Captain James and minded my own business And it's my fault if Samira hates me…"

Qaseem had reached out and touched her hand.

"Wait, Molly. Just let me think about what you are saying. I knew you were troubled, still, about Bashira, but I didn't know how much till now. It seems to me you need to talk with her about this. What do you think?"

"I know , I know. That's what I want to do. But how, Qaseem? She don't get me an' my Cockney lingo. An' I don't get her Pashto, innit?"As she got more agitated, it seemed to the Afghani that Molly became less and less intelligible to him and he was an interpreter… How difficult it must be for the other women to "get" her when she was talking, especially when agitated as she was now.

" My sister is the one to help us, Molly. She is wise and she has been with Samira to hear her stories for quite a long time now.

My sister has told me of her respect for you. I am sure she can help us talk about the important things that need to be said between you and Samira, things that need to be said for the last time and then allowed to dissolve away. Is that how it is for you, Molly?"

"An' you will help, too, Qaseem?"

He got up slowly and had smiled. "I am going to find them and come right back. Samira and you both need to have settled hearts, Molly. She needs to start a new life away from this place and should not carry old sadness and worries with her.

And for you, I think of a conversation I had with Charles some time ago.

He told me he knew that you had not finished with Afghanistan yet, Molly. He told me he wanted you to be brilliant, as brilliant as he knew you could be, and to feel your mission is complete. Charles is a man like me, Molly, who loves from the depth of his being. Once he finds the woman who is his love, he needs no other and will always want her to feel loved and complete in herself.

Like me, I think he has discovered then how much he is loved is how it was for me with my wife.

Charles asked me to be your friend when you were ready for this last little bit of polishing your heart and soul so that the brilliance could be clearly seen."

Her smile showed him she was almost there.

As she strolled back from the beach that last evening Molly replayed the eventual conversation between the four friends, As her mental "tapes" played she allowed herself to feel the emotions which accompanied her memories… And , for the first time, she felt safe allowing herself to do so.

 _ **I lost someone close to me suddenly in recent weeks and became even more acutely aware of the need to tell our stories so they have a better chance of surviving. I also had underlined for me the need to talk to those we care about, in order to avoid misunderstanding one another if circumstances separate us unexpectedly.**_

 _ **It struck me that the upcoming conversation between Molly and Samira deserves some attention to detail in the telling. After all, Molly will be able to confront and own what she has said and done in regard to Bashira's family, directly to one of its members. Hopefully, healing will happen for all, Samira can move on into a hopeful new life and Molly will truly find her brilliance. Then we can think about that rendezvous on The Dark Side…**_

 _ **Please read and review. I'm unsure of myself after being away for so long.**_

 _ **As always, thanks to Tony Grounds and the BBC.**_


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